United Fools of America
by Mandelene
Summary: America has never settled for the world as it is. A battle for acceptance and strength will face her as she juggles the problems of a nation. She'll have to win the world's respect while spitting on Old World social norms, fighting not only for her freedom, but for the rights of the oppressed masses that will stumble upon her shores. (American History as told by Female America).
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: So, this is one of those stories that I've wanted to write for the longest time, but never had the time or courage to actually write. Please let me know whether you'd be interested in reading more of this story by leaving a review or favoriting/following it. As usual, thank you for the amazing support. :) **

* * *

_"I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'" _

_–The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald._

She was just about the most beautiful thing in the world in that little moment that they shared together—he was sure of it. It was a pure and unadulterated beauty that wasn't commonly seen, left untouched by scars and insecurities in such an obvious way that he envied it, wondering how anything could ever be so free.

He admired her as she stood in the straw-like grass that reached just up to her waist, curious blue eyes peeking at him uncertainly. Immediately, he felt an inherent magnetic pull that reeled him over to her, realizing rather belatedly in his confusion that he had uncovered a part of the New World, and that she was an embodiment that had been previously left invisible to the rest of the earth.

And she was just a tiny doll, wheat-colored hair spilling over her thin shoulders as she looked up at him as though he were some sort of deity.

"Who're you?" she mumbled around a thumb that had found its way to her mouth, brows furrowed suspiciously.

He nearly laughed at her adorably affronted look and took off his feather-adorned hat with a humble bow, boots crunching against the soil. Carefully, he took her hand in his and planted a gentle kiss on it politely; a common gesture in his native land.

"I'm terribly sorry for not introducing myself sooner, my dear. I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And, I suppose that you must be America," he said, eyes flashing with all of the opportunities he saw for this child.

She cocked her head to the side in response before pointing to a spot quite some distance away. "Did you come with that other strange man?"

He took a moment to follow her inquiry. "France? Don't pay him any mind—he's notorious for doing more harm than good, I'm afraid. Now, aren't you cold? How long have you been out here unaccompanied?"

"No, I'm okay," America assured with a little squeak, cowering ever so slightly. "I've been in the woods since forever."

"Forever, you say? That's a rather long time, hmm? Well, out of mere good conscience, I can't allow for that. Why don't you come along with me? We'll find you some proper attire and a warm meal."

America simply shook her head for a moment and took a step back, wary of his intrusion upon her land. However, there was something about this man that seemed homely and familiar, as though she'd been missing his presence all this time. After some deep deliberation, she ventured a few steps forward, accepting his proffered hand with finality.

And she seemed to know, almost instinctively, that he was one of her kind. It filled her with relief to know that she was not the only one—not the only being who grew so slowly and seemed to age just as gradually.

Or so it seemed. Though she did not know it yet, she would one day discover that she and this man were not as alike as she would have liked to think.

"I will be your guardian from now on," he said with an awkward and uncomfortable smile.

Not truly understanding the implications of such a statement, America nodded, walking away from her life and delving into a history that she never sought to seek.

* * *

"Try and catch me if you can!" America screeched as she sprinted down the streets of a bustling Boston, feeling her hair beat against her back as the early evening wind tickled her skin. She adored summer, taking in the sights and smells of the lively city as the stifling heat died down with the setting sun.

From behind, she could hear her closest friend, Charlie, struggle to catch up with her long strides. "Slow down, will ya?"

"NEVER!" America responded immediately, enjoying the 'whooshing' sound ringing against her ears as she raced down the next block, making her way for a little clearing of grassy field just off to the east. She stole a glance at the view of the harbor, too distracted to realize that Charlie had made up for the previous differential in distance.

Then, she was being tackled to the ground and left wriggling in the grass, kicking and shrieking as she fought off Charlie's playful punches. When he slowed his assault, America could feel a bubble of laughter rise out of her throat, feeling wonderful in her gut as her breath escaped her and seemingly cloaked her in joy.

The laughter was contagious, and soon Charlie was giggling as well, cheeks a rosy red as sweat rolled down his temple.

"Got you!" he cheered with damp, almond-colored hair. "Told ya I was faster than you. I can easily outrun any girl!"

America huffed, rolling over onto her stomach and sticking her tongue out at her attacker. "Whatever. You know that you lost, and then you had to cheat by tackling me to make yourself feel better."

"Liar!"

"Nuh-uh. I wouldn't lie about something like that."

"Uh-huh, I guess we're just gonna havta have a rematch to prove that I'm the fastest."

America grinned coyly. "You're on, but not today because it's too hot."

With a groan of agreement, Charlie nodded and stood up, stretching his arms. "I know! I feel like I'm melting! My mom wants to go up north for a few weeks because it's colder there. My dad said that we might even move there!"

"Move?" America exclaimed with sudden alarm, getting up and brushing her hands clean with the help of her dress. "You can't move away! Who would I race with?"

Charlie shrugged, kicking a stone. "I dunno… Danny's a pretty good racer. Not as good as me, but still…"

America shook her head discontentedly and tugged on his arm firmly. "You have to stay here."

"I'll try," he consoled promisingly, looking up at America with a sly grin. "But we'll always be friends even if I do move. Right, Amelia?"

The human name caught her off guard for a moment, considering that she didn't use it often. Nonetheless, she recovered and returned the smile, bobbing her head in approval. "Definitely! What would you do without me? It'd be hard to find someone else to always lose to."

Charlie blushed angrily. "I don't always lose! I just go easy on you because you're a girl."

"What's that supposed to mean? Who cares if I'm a girl?"

"Everyone knows that girls aren't as tough as boys."

America crossed her arms. "Who told you that?"

"My Dad says that boys are supposed to be nice to girls because they aren't as strong as boys, and it's rude to be rough with them."

America frowned deeply, looking terribly troubled. "I think that's stupid. I'm as strong as any boy.

"Yeah, I know, but that's what he said. Amelia, it's getting late, and I have to go home for dinner. I'll see you again soon."

America nodded once more and watched Charlie's retreat back to his house, letting out an irritated sigh. "Okay. Bye, Charlie."

Realizing that it was about high time for her to get home too, America made her way back to the main road, quickening her pace as the sky continued to grow darker. When she reached the familiar house, she knew that she was due for a firm scolding and hoped that a well-practiced pout would aid her plea.

"There you are!" England announced with a click of the tongue, quite distressed. He greeted her in the foyer, stowing his reading glasses into the front pocket of his wrinkle-free shirt, which was now sticking to his perspiring skin. "Where in the world have you been? I was about to go out searching for you, but I see that you have finally graced me with your presence—covered in the usual muck and grime."

Lowering her eyes to her dress, America noticed the grass and dirt stains that England was scowling at. With a guilty expression she smiled at her guardian apologetically. "I'm sorry. I was just playing around."

"Mmm," England hummed thoughtfully, crouching down to get a better look at the colony. "You've made a mess of yourself again, you do realize? A bath is in order."

"Yuck, do I have to?"

England nodded sternly. "Yes, and I'll have no arguments. It's been a trying day and my patience is thinning. You've already missed dinner, mind you."

Conceding the minor loss, America followed England into their designated laundry/bath room, watching as the man went about filling up the wooden bath with water from the well. The homemade lye soap was brought out as well, and America rethought her complacency as England rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and waited for America to get into the tub.

"I heard that you can get sick if you bathe too often," America said matter-of-factly, hoping to use reason to convince the older nation to relent on the washing.

England scoffed, shaking his head as he dipped a hand into the water to test its temperature. "That's complete rubbish. You'll be just fine, believe me. Now, hurry up, I haven't got all day."

"I don't know if I—AGH!"

America felt arms coil themselves around her waist before she was dropped into the tub with a bit of a splash, spluttering as England dunked her head into the water mercilessly.

"That'll teach you not to roll in filth," he chided with a mischievous smile.

"It's COLD!"

"Yes, a miraculous feat considering this heat-wave we've been experiencing."

America groaned, shivering from the drastic temperature change before flicking her fingers in the water and splashing a bit of it at England's face. "Ha!"

The look on the older nation's face was priceless, in America's not-so-humble opinion. His eyes widened at the blatant act of betrayal before he prepped his hands to dunk America's head into the water again.

"AH! No, stop it!" America shrilled gleefully, flopping about in the tub as England let his usual demeanor of stern empire dissolve for a moment. It was a rarity for the man to let his guard slip so easily, and it would be a nicety that America would learn to miss in the future. "I surrender! Boys aren't supposed to be mean to girls!"

England chuckled airily, relenting for a few seconds before grabbing the bar of soap and continuing his playful rough-housing. "You don't say? And who told you that?"

"Everybody knows it! You have to be nice to me or else!"

Highly amused now, England raised an eyebrow at the little girl whom he'd grown to treat like a daughter. "Or else what?"

"Or else you'll be in big trouble!" America warned, shaking the water out of her hair before sighing again, swatting at England's hands with a new look of dissatisfaction and effectively ending their playing. "England, can I ask you something?"

Growing serious once more before scrubbing America's face clean with soap, England tilted his head to the side at the child. "Of course you can, love."

"What's wrong with being a girl?"

England furrowed his brows, carefully rinsing off America's face to avoid getting soap or water in her eyes. "That's an awfully strange question. Why do you ask?"

"I've just been thinking about it…"

"Well, I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with being a young lady," England murmured warmly, fetching a towel as he deemed America to be clean once again. Then, he began to help her dry off as she stood barefoot in front of the tub.

"But how come I'm not a boy?"

England felt his heart rate speed up, surprised by the follow-up question. "Because you were born a girl."

"But maybe I don't want to be a girl."

"Well," England said with a light cough, rubbing at his neck. "You don't exactly get to choose your gender, my dear. It's…predetermined for you."

"Why though?"

England bit his lower lip, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the sweat on his neck. "Well, that's just the way the world works, I'm afraid. Things simply are the way they are, and we can't change them. Now, enough of these philosophical questions of yours. Let's get some supper in you and then we'll get you ready for bed, all right? Lord knows that if we don't usher you off to bed soon, I'll never get any paperwork done in a timely manner."

America hovered behind England as they entered her bedroom, accepting the fresh nightgown that England presented her with after a moment of searching through the dresser. She slipped it over her head, feeling small as it engulfed her and seemed to swallow her figure.

"England?"

A long sigh, followed by, "Yes, America?"

"Am I strong?"

"Certainly," England replied absently, folding some shirts and organizing them by color. He wasn't sure whether or not he should be worried about America's uncharacteristic behavior, but he supposed that he would address it only if it became a future issue. "Now, let's find you some supper, or you won't be able to keep up that strength of yours."

After a quick and uneventful meal, America soon found herself in the familiar bedroom once more, drowsy and pleasantly full after a day of energy depletion caused by endless play. She laid atop the bedcovers, warding off the heat by opening her window as wide as possible. Then, she waited impatiently for England to come in and read her a story, which was their customary nighttime ritual.

And, sure enough, England arrived just a few minutes later, still dressed in his proper attire as though he did not plan on turning in for a while.

"What story are you going to read?" America mumbled with what little wakefulness she still retained, blinking languidly.

"That depends on which story you'd like to hear," England returned, standing by one of the many bookshelves in the room.

America pondered the titles of stories in her mind before finally making her decision. "Can you read one of King Arthur's tales?"

England smiled and gave a little nod, lying down next to America and stretching out his legs wearily. Instantly, America edged closer to the man, resting her head on his chest habitually, completely at ease. It seemed that she was the only one who could toy with England's heartstrings with hardly any effort, sending the ferocious empire to his knees in order to cater to her every whim.

"How Arthur drew forth ye sword," he began, clearing his throat, "So when the morning of Christmas Day had come, many thousands of folk of all qualities, both gentle and simple, gathered together in front of the cathedral for to behold the assay of that sword."

America smiled contentedly, nuzzling her face into England's shoulder and attempting to read the words that he was uttering to no avail. She had begun learning how to sound out basic written syllables, but still could not make out the mysterious strings of words coded into each sentence.

She could feel herself drifting away, lulled by the steady lilt of England's voice. She wasn't sure how far they'd made it through the tale, but she did manage to catch the conclusion.

"Thus, Arthur achieved the adventure of the sword that day and entered into his birthright of royalty. Wherefore, may God grant His Grace unto you all that ye too may likewise succeed in your undertakings," England read, lowering his voice as America's breathing slowed.

In fact, he was nearly whispering now.

"For any man may be a king in that life in which he is placed if so he may draw forth the sword of success from out of the iron of circumstance. Wherefore when your time of assay cometh, I do hope it may be with you as it was with Arthur that day, and that ye too may achieve success with entire satisfaction unto yourself and to your great glory and perfect happiness."

America was already asleep, and with as much gentleness as he could muster, England carefully coaxed her to move her head away from his shoulder and onto the pillow so that he could stand. When he'd managed to do so, he couldn't help but smile once more at her resting form, going against his better judgment by placing his forehead against America's and planting a chaste kiss on her nose.

"You're more powerful than you realize," he murmured softly. "Sleep well."

He knew it wasn't right—growing so attached to a colony and spoiling it as a result. As much as he took on the role of parent for America, there was still an important distinction that separated colony from empire, and a certain amount of respect that had to follow. She would remain to be just an extension of him, and he couldn't let her be anything more than that. She could never truly be his child, and, at the end of the day, she would always be just a resource for the motherland.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said agonizingly into the dim corridor, pinching the bridge of his nose before returning to his office.

* * *

"America! Come and help me sort out these groceries, please."

"No! I can't—I'm busy!" America shouted from the top of the stairs, sounding extremely frustrated.

England opened his mouth in disbelief. Who did this child think she was? How dare she claim to be too busy to help out around the house? England hardly asked her to do more work than fundamental chores that were meant to help her build a sense of responsibility, but obviously his efforts were failing him.

Making his way over to the stairs, England searched for the young girl, only to discover that she had already disappeared into the washroom. Thoroughly peeved now, he ascended the stairs and knocked firmly on the closed door that America had taken refuge behind.

Producing his best 'no-nonsense' voice, he braced himself for one of the child's tantrums. "You do not say 'no' to me. I want you standing in front of me in exactly three seconds, am I understood?"

"But I'm—"

"One."

America groaned, throwing something onto the floor in rage.

"Two."

She opened the door and slowly made her way out, shamefaced.

"Three."

England had to admit that he'd grown resistant to many of America's strange behaviors after living with her over the years, but apparently, he hadn't seen it all yet. The young nation who stood before him was bedraggled and dressed in a rumpled skirt and creased shirt, hair strewn in every direction after she had attempted to tie it into a ponytail.

Taking a moment to mentally prepare himself for an interrogation, England finally found the voice to speak. "May I ask what the meaning of this is?"

"I'm trying to get dressed and ready all by myself," America clarified for England as though he were extremely slow.

"While I admire your effort, you should have called me for help."

"I couldn't ask for you for help."

"Why not? You can always come to me."

"Cause you're not supposed to ask for help when you're getting ready for a date," America explained unhappily, irritated that she was being kept from finishing her makeover.

England felt his blood turn cold as he choked on the air in his lungs. "D-Date? What date?"

"I'm in love, England," America insisted with a roll of the eyes before re-entering the washroom and attempting to fix the crooked ponytail. She made it seem as though the situation was so blatantly obvious and that England was the uneducated one in the room who was struggling to follow along.

"In love? You're six!"

"No, I'm not six in human years!"

"Well, that may be true, but you are six physically. You don't know what love is just yet," England rationalized, suddenly wishing that he'd just stayed in the kitchen and put away the groceries like he'd initially intended to do.

"Charlie says that anyone can fall in love, and it doesn't matter how old they are!"

"Who is this Charlie boy? I'd like to meet him."

"He's my boyfriend."

England gaped at the child, glancing down the hallway and back at the little girl with a look of utter incredulity. When had he missed this?

"Boyfriend? Who gave you permission to have a boyfriend, might I ask?"

"I don't need permission."

England put a hand on his hip, leaning against the doorway. "Oh, really? We'll see about that. America, as long as I'm around, you will not be having a boyfriend for a very, VERY long time. In fact, chances are that you won't be dating at all. You're a nation! It's—it's improper!"

"I'm big now and you can't change who I love!"

Dear God, who put these ridiculous thoughts into his child's head? He knew he should've distanced America from the human children. It just wasn't natural for her to take on their lifestyles and customs.

"And where is this date taking place?" England asked, conflicted between just letting the child's phase run its course and nipping it in the bud. She was still so young, and odds were that she wouldn't even remember this little romance in the future, so what harm could possibly come out of it?

"We're going to be in the yard."

"Our yard?"

"Yup."

England rubbed a hand over his chin. "I see. Well, I suppose I'll have the opportunity to meet this fellow and have a word with him. Until then, allow me to help you tidy up a bit."

"I can do it myself!" America insisted, never one to be left feeling inadequate or inferior.

"I'm sure you can, but indulge me."

The older nation lifted up the abandoned brush that had been thrown to the ground, raking it through America's hair and wondering whether or not his skills as a hairstylist were advanced enough to attempt to braid the dark blonde locks.

After much deliberation, he tried his hand at making a simple and straightforward braid, tying the end off with the band that America had found.

"Much better," he noted with satisfaction, deciding whether or not to have America change into some less rumpled clothes. Chances were that she'd just make a mess of the next batch of clothes as well, so having her change would be futile. Instead, he tried to flatten out some of the wrinkles with his hands, relenting after a moment to admire his work.

"Do I look okay?"

"Fabulous," England grumbled sarcastically, patting America's shoulder and guiding her downstairs. By the time they'd reached the living room, there was a knock on the door. "I suspect that's our young bachelor now."

Unable to reach out a hand in time to pull her back, England watched hopelessly as America swung open the door and greeted Charlie with a hug. When they had separated, Charlie stepped across the threshold and held out a hand.

"Hello, Mr. Kirkland! I'm Charlie Webb!" he said brightly, shaking the older man's hand formally.

England bit back a laugh, finding it rather amusing that a boy who barely reached his hip was taking his America out on a date in the backyard.

"A pleasure," England remarked, shaking the tiny hand and inviting the boy inside. "If you don't mind, lad, I was hoping that I could have a brief word with you."

Charlie nodded his head enthusiastically as America went into the kitchen to find them some suitable snacks. "Uh-huh! I mean—of course, sir!"

"Please, have a seat," England gestured toward the couch before sitting in the armchair opposite from the boy, contemplating how to approach this situation in a way that would be clear for such a young pair of children. "I'm sure that you understand that I care for Amelia very much, and would hate to see her put in harm's way. As such, I must ask you to treat her with the utmost respect, and if there's any trouble, you shall have to answer to me."

Charlie nodded jovially once again, unfazed.

England pursed his lips, raising a brow at the boy. "You must be well aware that you are both quite young to be dating. I will, therefore, take up the task of chaperoning this little meeting every once in a while."

"England! Stop bothering him!" America urged, returning to the living room with some scones and biscuits. "Come on, Charlie. Let's go."

The man chuckled, resting a hand on his temple dubiously as America led the boy into the yard. "Have her home by sunset!"

And so, the day went on while England periodically checked up on the children every twenty minutes to ensure that everything was still in order. The two played out in the yard, chasing each other and making a ruckus. England considered going back to his desk to finish up on some work, but he knew that it would be impossible for him to focus and that the noise outside would be far too distracting. Nonetheless, he would allow the pair to have their fun for one day.

But he promised to himself that he would make sure that this would be the first and last 'date' in the near future, simply due to the fact that he couldn't bear the stress of picturing America with other boys, especially when he reminisced on the type of young man that he'd been in his early youth.

Thankfully, he didn't have to be the one to break the children's hearts because when he stepped outside for his next patrol, everything seemed to have been already handled for him.

"It's time to come inside, you two. Would you like me to escort you home, Charlie?"

The boy shook his head. "Thank you very much for having me over, Mr. Kirkland. I can get home just fine on my own. Bye, Amelia and Mr. Kirkland! Have a good night."

"Goodnight to you as well," England retorted, shutting the door behind the boy before turning to America. "Did you have a swell time on your date?"

"Yeah, but we broke up."

England felt a weight being lifted off of his shoulders. "Oh, my apologies, poppet."

"It's all right. He just didn't understand me."

"Hmm, well, how unfortunate then. How did he misunderstand you?"

"He wanted to get married, and I told him that I'm not ready for that. He also said that when we get married I'll have to take care of him and help him clean his room. I don't want to do that either."

It was obvious that the child didn't understand the severity of what she had said, so England decided to think nothing of it. However, he still wished that he could understand the child's intentions more deeply, puzzled by her sudden need to experiment with human-like concepts and questions.

Truth be told, she was blooming into a rebel right before his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

In her early youth, everything appeared to be so much more insignificant and inconsequential. Any heart wrenching display of deeply imbedded emotions was lost on her. She didn't linger on the tiny details of her life, taking for granted the sheer intrigue of her circumstances. She stood—watching and waiting for understanding to come upon her as the world transformed of its own accord.

And thus, when England seated himself in his office one fine evening, America did not—could not—grasp the imperative nature of the situation upon them.

She had been playing with her wooden blocks, building a fort for the beautiful fairy princess that she hoped would reside within its sturdy walls. She placed her doll on the highest block, sitting her upright so that she could watch over the expanse of the royal property. Then, she heard a shuffle of movement behind her, and the unmistakable sound of England's shoes making contact with the doorway to her bedroom.

She turned toward him at once, a proud smile on her face as she flaunted her fort to the empire, cheeks pink and colored with animosity. "England, look what I did all by myself! Wanna be the knight that protects the fairy princess?"

Riddled with indecision, England allowed the ghost of a melancholy smile to wash over his features. America picked up on his sullen stance rather hastily, frowning upon noting that something was troubling the man.

"I'm afraid now is not a good time," England murmured pityingly, rubbing a hand over his face. "My dear, I'd like to have a word with you."

The child pouted at his tone, lowering her chin slightly in fear. "Am I in trouble?"

England shook his head reassuringly, finally stepping into the room to take hold of the young girl's hand. "No, it's nothing of the sort. Come along, and I'll explain."

America allowed herself to be guided into the old office, finding some pleasure in the warmth and coziness of the room as she was seated in the nearest leather chair. England stood before her, just in front of his mahogany desk in order to lean on it for support.

"What's wrong?" America prodded, growing impatient and frightened at the fact that her mentor had suddenly become so serious. He said that she wasn't in any trouble, but she was still not entirely convinced that he was not upset with her.

England took in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily before finding the energy to speak. "I know that we've spoken of this matter many times in the past, but I'd like to reinforce it once more just to be certain that you fully understand."

"You said that I wasn't in trouble!"

"You're not going to be scolded, but it's very important that you listen very carefully to what I'm about to say to you."

America sat up straight in her seat, arms outstretched on either armrest of the chair as she met her guardian's gaze.

"As you well know, we are not ordinary people, America. What are we?"

"We're nations," America replied jubilantly, resisting the urge to bounce in her seat. "You're England and I'm America. You're an empire and I'm your colony. You came all the way across the sea to find me, and now I'm part of you!"

England grimaced mildly at the less than eloquent explanation, but nodded his head nonetheless. "Precisely. Now, what is it about nations that makes them different from everyday people?"

The child in the large leather chair beamed with happiness, a triumphant grin on her face. "We're stronger!"

"What else?" England pressed imploringly.

America chewed on her bottom lip in thought, contemplative. "We…We don't grow as fast."

"Yes, that's the answer I was looking for," England praised softly. "Even though you seem to be growing rather rapidly for a colony, you won't grow nearly as quickly as the human children. We have and will continue to age very gradually. Now, when you're an adult, this won't be as much of a hindrance, but for now, it's important that we don't attract too much attention to this particular phenomenon."

America gave the man a confused look, slumping forward as she waited for clarification.

"What I'm trying to get at is that you can no longer interact with these new friends that you've made in Boston. You may no longer talk to that boy you are so fond of, Charlie, nor the remainder of any other acquaintances. It is for your own safety," England finished sternly, hating himself for the immediate crestfallen look in America's eyes.

"I'm sorry, America."

"W-Why can't I have any friends?" the child whispered, dangerously on the verge of tears.

England sighed, crouching down to be at eye-level with his charge. "Your friends are getting older, America. They'll all be teenagers before you know it. Don't you think they'll find it strange that you'll still appear to be six when they'll be sixteen? We can't risk the exposure of our kind."

"B-But it's not fair! Who am I going to talk to now? I can't talk to any humans?"

"America, please. You know that I'm not asking you to do this just to be an old grouch. It's for your own well-being," England said, patting America's knee comfortingly. "In essence, I suppose it's my fault for allowing you to grow so attached to the other children. Until you're fully grown, it's best if you only remain in prolonged contact with those who are aware of our existence."

"You can't keep me away from everyone!"

England clenched his fingers into fists, losing his composure. "America, you will do as I say or face the severe consequences. If I ever catch you talking to Charlie again, other than to tell him that you are breaking all relations with him, you will be punished accordingly."

America's breath hitched, eyes flooding with tears as a horrible gnawing sensation grew in the pit of her stomach. "It's not fair! I don't want to be a colony or even a nation!"

Unsure of whether or not to allow America to cry herself out, England watched helplessly, rubbing the girl's arm until she swatted his hand away, storming out of the room and disappearing into the hallway. Immediately, the older nation trailed behind her, making frugal attempts to calm her as he entered her bedroom once more. He stood in the corner, making sure the child didn't wreak too much destruction.

In a fit of rage, America knocked down the fort she had built, watching the fairy princess fall from her pedestal and collapse with the rest of the rubble. Then, America lowered herself to the ground as well, tears dripping onto the wooden floorboards.

"America," England tried again, walking forward and placing a steady hand on the shaking shoulder. "I know it's hard, but I need you to be brave and strong, all right? This is a lot to ask of you, but—"

America swiped her tears away furiously before pulling away from England's touch to allow her anger to consume her. Wanting nothing more than to be left alone in peace, she turned to England and shouted the first offensive remark that came to mind.

"I hate you!"

Time seemed to stop as England withdrew his hand from her proximity, stunned by the impact of the child's words. America had said those same three words in a joking manner many times in the past, but this was the first time that she had uttered them with such sincere conviction.

Guilt instantly bit at America's nerves as she watched her father figure stare back at her morosely. He just stood there for a while, not daring to move. For a moment, America feared that he'd been paralyzed, but when he finally made his way for the door, she felt both relieved and sorrowful.

Habit willed her to get up and chase after the man to bolster his spirits, but her defiance won the struggle, keeping her planted to the floor like glue.

* * *

Though she was small and still missed more subtle social cues, America knew that things had changed between her and England. She still hadn't apologized to him, and spent most of autumn in the yard, partially to avoid the uncomfortableness of being in his presence. She would climb the large oak tree— whose leaves had turned an orangey-yellow—perching herself on one of the solid branches. Then, her feet would swing back and forth beneath her as she enjoyed the crisp breeze that would occasionally flutter through her hair.

It was rather fitting then, that at the peak of her crumbling relationships, the earth seemed to be in a state of mourning as well.

On some days she could spot Charlie leaving his house, and she would smile as he helped his father in his work shed, lending a hand for some of the more laborious tasks.

Occasionally, when England was not in as foul of a mood as usual, he would come out into the yard and chide her for her actions.

"Young ladies don't climb trees," he would say before disappearing back into the house, leaving America to go about her day without further comment.

Apparently, her people had a lot to say about the British Empire, and she began growing more aware of this as she passed newspaper kiosks in the streets. Salutary neglect, some called it; the policy of lenient law enforcement upon the English colonies as the British government dealt with its own affairs in Europe.

In fact, for the first time, America felt herself form a bond between her people, which was a welcomed surprise after her long bout of loneliness. She finally seemed to discover that she did not have to talk to others to feel and empathize with them—it was already one of her inherent senses.

And as she grew, she felt her connection with her inhabitants develop evermore intricate.

Therefore, the seasons passed and meshed into one another as America continued to sit in that faithful tree. England was right when he claimed that Charlie would mature, and America witnessed his transformation into a lanky teenager right before her very eyes.

A few years seemed to leave little of an impact on America, but Charlie was quickly approaching adulthood, and the passage of time at last left its mark on her when she noticed that one day something had changed about the lively house that she'd been observing. Charlie came out of the edifice with a collection of wooden boxes that were packed high with miscellaneous items before piling them onto a carriage.

Then, it finally dawned upon her that he was leaving.

The family was moving up north, just as Charlie had relayed to her all those years before. America remembered the pain of saying goodbye to him after England had forced her to break all contact with him. She'd come up with a measly excuse that she couldn't be friends with him anymore because of something he had said. It had all been soaked in lies, and she hoped that she hadn't broken his heart beyond repair.

Charlie had come to her house days afterward, apologizing and asking to see her multiple times, but each time, England would apologize and turn down his requests.

Tall and older, though still highly impressionable, Charlie seemed happy, and that was enough for America to find some closure in their previously bitter ending. She tried to sense what he was feeling, seeing as he was one of her people, but before she could get the opportunity to dwell on it, Charlie had turned his head and looked straight at her.

She was startled at the prospect of getting caught, swiftly making her escape out of the tree and back to the grassy ground. Charlie only blinked at the sight, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He turned back to the carriage, but couldn't shake the strange feeling growing in his chest.

America smiled from her spot on the ground, and though she was once again hidden from his sight, she could feel the blossoming questions in Charlie's mind. Though she might never find a way to properly explain it, he simply seemed to know—or at least a small part of him knew—who she truly was.

And that was enough.

* * *

It wasn't until she was quite a bit older (physically eleven to be exact), that she recognized the true extent of what it meant to be a nation, with all of its woes in particular.

She had been accompanying England to the market, sidling past numerous people along the way and attempting not to converse with her parent country unnecessarily, when she suddenly doubled over in a flash of burning pain; a crippling pain that seemed to twist the very bones through her entire form, sending her to her knees.

"Amelia?" she heard England call out as he rushed forward and knelt beside her, taking her hand in his. Despite their recent turmoil, the older nation's eyes were full of concern and worry, grip firm as he held his protective hand over hers. "What's wrong?"

A small crowd had gathered around them, and a few Bostonians scurried forward to help, but England waved them off and assured them that the situation was under control.

"Everything hurts," America gasped, tears spilling over her cheeks as another ripple of throbbing pain ran through her legs and sent a chill down her spine. "Why does e-everything hurt?" she asked, stumbling on her words.

England knit his brows together and brushed a hand through her hair reassuringly. He was relatively calm considering the circumstances, having dealt with such illnesses and injuries in the past. "Let's get you home, hmm? Can you walk?"

Testing out her limbs, America tried to stand, but only ended up in a writhing huddle of pain once more. She continued to cry, sobs growing in strength as England kept his cool, rubbing circles into her back.

"Right then, put your arms around my neck and hold on tightly," the man ordered, waiting patiently for America to do as she was told. Once her grip was secure, England put one hand on her back and the other under her legs. "That's it. I'm going to lift you up now, all right?"

"Are you strong enough?" America couldn't help but mock the other, a painful smile twitching on her face before fading altogether.

England merely scoffed and rolled his eyes at her. He was an empire and she was the size of an eleven-year-old child, rendering her nearly weightless in his arms. "Feeling well enough to be cheeky, are we?" he murmured without any real bite in his words. Slowly he raised her up from the ground and began the walk to their home, leaving the frazzled colonists behind.

"What's happening to me?" America queried once they had retreated to a less populated area.

England growled under his breath for a moment before replying in a hushed whisper. "France happened, that's what. I'll see to it that this madness ends quickly."

The girl glowered, resting her head on England's chest as fatigue caught up with her. The man had spoken to her about the impending war with France and the French colonies, but America hadn't paid it much mind. After all, England was always at war with someone, and it usually didn't impact her. In fact, not even England himself seemed to be fazed by the troubles in Europe.

Was this what war felt like then? Her body was flaring up with pain in every muscle, and as they finally reached the house, America begged England to make it stop.

"Hush, love. We'll get you tucked into bed and you'll feel a bit better," England promised as he tried to drown out her growing hysteria. He had to remain calm. It was only natural that such a young colony would be so effected by its first encounter with true warfare.

America's whimpers smoldered when England set her down on the awaiting bed, but increased a tenfold upon the loss of contact with the older nation.

"Don't let go!" America pleaded, reaching out her arms for him as she felt lost and hollow without the protective embrace of her father figure. "I-It hurts so much that I can barely breathe."

England sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, taking hold of America's hand once more to help her relax. "It's going to be all right. Your people are fighting, and the first battle is always the worst, but the pain will fade after a while. The pain is intense because you're still young. Unfortunately, there is little we can do aside from waiting it out."

"Don't leave," America demanded, squeezing the hand clutching hers. "Please, don't leave."

And perhaps, this was why she felt such a childish affection for England, admiring his fatherly reassurances. The man could be stodgy and unreasonable, but when he cared for something, his entire arsenal of dedication and loyalty would step forward to protect it.

With a sympathetic smile, her parent nation leaned forward and kissed her head softly, brushing the hair out of her face afterward. "Don't be afraid; I'm not going anywhere. I'll be staying right here to keep an eye on you."

America nodded and looked as if she were about to say something else until her skin became clammy, making her grimace. She suddenly felt sick and turned her head to the side, feeling relieved that England had predicted her body's actions and now held a bucket in front of her. Immediately, she retched and expelled her lunch, wincing as her stomach and throat burned with displeasure.

"Unfortunately, that happens sometimes as well," England told her lightly, as though it were customary for him to soothe vomiting children. He set the bucket on the ground once she was done, leaving momentarily to clean up. He returned with a glass of water and cold washcloth, wiping her face and passing her the water to keep hydrated. "If I could take the pain instead, I would."

America frowned and tried to sit up to the best of her ability, only to collapse onto the pillows again. "You don't feel any pain? It's your nation too."

"I feel an occasional twinge," England admitted with a shrug, "but when you've been around for hundreds upon hundreds of years, these types of skirmishes are numbed by the body. The most inconvenient pain is the paperwork," he finished with a smirk. "But you have me to take care of that for you."

"Are we gonna win?"

England chuckled quietly, patting America's hand. "I shall tend to our imminent victory. You, on the other hand, are to stay in bed and rest. Pushing yourself will only make matters worse."

"But I wanna help fight France too! I'm old enough!"

"In due time," England assured with a little laugh. "You're already helping, after all. The pain you are undergoing is evident of that, but this is the last thing that I wanted."

America cocked her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"I never want to see you unwell. You see, America, no matter what the political climate is, and regardless of what goes on between our relations—" England cut himself off with a shake of the head. "I shouldn't be telling you this; it borders on treason. Just know that our government doesn't always determine our fate. We have our own feelings too, yes?"

Sleepiness looming over her, America nodded to appease England, tugging his hand close to her heart before drifting away from the pulsating pain of reality.

* * *

Nine years.

Nearly a decade had passed since the conflict had begun, but America was finally able to see peace on the horizon once more. They had won, though there had been some worrying moments of trouble for a span of time. Nonetheless, success rained over them, just as England had promised, and their empire swelled to an even greater size.

As such, America did not find it surprising when England had come into her room one day, still fussing over the child's slow recovery before stating that she would soon be meeting her sibling, Canada. Apparently, they were twins, and America found herself both startled and enthusiastic at the prospect that there was another copy of her out in the world.

"Your brother will be moving in with us now that he no longer belongs to France. I expect you to be hospitable and on your best behavior, is that clear?"

America smiled mischievously, already planning all of the trouble she would be getting into with the new addition to their little family. Plus, she wouldn't have to worry about becoming attached to him, seeing as they were both nations.

"Crystal clear!" America assured in the most angelic manner she could manage.

"He should be here any moment. As a matter of fact, I think that's his carriage now," England muttered, gesturing out the window.

Not waiting to be introduced, America swung the front door open and raced over to the carriage, hopping up and down impatiently as a figure emerged from the other side.

"Hi, Canada! It's nice to meet ya! My name's—"

She stopped in her tracks, taken aback and bewildered by the young boy that finally entered her field of vision. She imagined that he looked exactly what she would look like if she were a boy. He had wavy hair that curtained the sides of his face, and a single curl just at the top, which stood out prominently.

Despite being tall for a female, Canada was still an inch or two taller than America, and held a stuffed polar bear in his arms as he looked the other colony up and down.

"America?" he asked, frowning slightly at her. He had a bit of a French accent, but his English still appeared to be fairly understandable. She assumed that he would pick up her accent soon enough.

"You're a girl?"

Taking a moment to register the disappointed tone, America scowled. "Yeah, so? I'm your sister."

Canada held up his hands quickly in alarm. "I didn't mean to offend you," he mumbled softly. "I was just surprised…"

America huffed, lifting her chin into the air. "Well, that still wasn't a very nice way to say 'hello'!"

Blushing heavily, Canada remained flustered until England came out of the house to rescue him from further embarrassment. He'd met England before, and though he didn't particularly like the man, he supposed that his new guardian could potentially have been worse.

"I'd be careful if I were you," America continued, feeling more confident with England in the vicinity, "I could take you on any day!"

England rolled his eyes from behind the girl, placing a strong hand on her shoulder. "I thought you were going to behave yourself. What did we just talk about, America?"

"Hmph… He started it."

"I apologize for America's ill-temperedness," England began, holding out a hand to Canada. "It's been a while since I've last seen you. My, how you've grown."

Reluctantly, Canada took the proffered hand and shook it, suddenly aching for France to guide him through this new transitioning process. Unfortunately, the man had important business to take care of in Europe, and their goodbyes had been said earlier than expected.

America, meanwhile, seemed suddenly unhappy at the idea of having to share her guardian with anyone else. Ever since the beginning of the French and Indian War, she had grown closer with England, but now, it looked as if they'd be wedged apart again.

"Why don't you show Canada around while I bring his things into the house, America?" England suggested, removing his hand from America's shoulder and gently pushing her in the direction of the front door. "I'm sure you two will get along just fine."

America scrunched her nose up in disdain. "Do I havta?"

"America," England warned, stern and unwavering.

The child sighed peevishly and nodded, wrapping one hand around Canada's wrist before dragging him inside. "Hurry up, brother! We've got lots of stuff to do."

She led him into the foyer first, stopping to point at various objects. "This is where England puts all of his vases and expensive stuff. Don't break any of it, or you'll get in trouble."

Canada smirked. "How many vases have you broken?"

"No questions," America stated threateningly, pulling Canada up the stairs and into the first room on the right. "This is my room. It's off limits, got it?"

Canada, slightly sheepish and a tad frightened by America's intimidating glare, nodded ever so slightly.

Then, they traversed into the room directly across the hall. "This is England's office. You're not allowed to go in there either unless he lets you. If he does let you come in, it's usually 'cause you're in big trouble—like the no dessert for two weeks type of trouble."

Continuing on with the tour, despite Canada's protesting wrist, America wandered into the next room on the left. "This is England's room. Only I'm allowed to go in here uninvited, okay?"

"How come?"

"I said no questions!" America hissed, looking very exasperated. "But if you havta know, let's just say that England likes me more than you, so I get to go in there when I don't feel well and you don't."

"That doesn't seem fair," Canada pointed out quietly, never raising his voice.

"Well, rules are rules, and they have to be followed," America rationalized, using the line that England often used on her. "The washroom is at the end of the hall and the outhouse is to the left of the yard. To the right is the well. Got it? All right, I've got stuff to do. See ya around!" she said, departing to her bedroom.

Timidly, Canada stood in the empty hallway before going after his sister once more, unsure of what else to do. He invited himself inside with a little knock, watching America sprawl herself out on her bed.

"I said that my room is off limits! Get it?"

Canada wrung his hands uncertainly, feeling exactly like a fish out of water. "But where am I going to stay?"

America sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "You can sleep in the yard, just set up a tent."

Spluttering and flustered, Canada felt his cheeks flush in anger. "You don't have to be so rude."

Maybe this whole 'having a brother' ordeal wasn't going to be as rewarding as America initially thought.

"England! Send him back!"

The sound of someone climbing the steps followed, and soon England had entered the bedroom, staring at America accusingly. "Stop your hollering. What is the problem now?"

"Canada won't get out of my room!"

England clicked his tongue in the usual disapproving manner, frowning down at America. "You'll be sharing this room now."

Her worst nightmare becoming a reality, America hastily began to plead her case. "But why? I don't even know him! He's a total stranger! What if he turns out to be an axe murderer and chops my head off while I'm sleeping?"

Awkward and uncomfortable, Canada scratched at him arm, hugging Kumajirou tightly as England mumbled something indistinguishable under his breath.

"I worry about your rampant thoughts sometimes. It'll be absolutely fine, and you'll learn to adjust to sharing. I'll have the other bed set up by tonight," England announced with a tone that clearly left no room for further discussion. "Canada has had a long trip and is tired, so I expect you to be sympathetic. We'll have a quick dinner and then it'll be time for bed."

America glared at the two male nations, conceding defeat, but only momentarily. If she had to share the only room that she had to herself—in the house that seemed to be suffocating her—, she would find a way to persevere.

In fact, appeasement and accommodation would soon become everyday occurrences.

* * *

"We've been through this before, America," England growled one afternoon, barely sparing a moment to look up from his paperwork. "It's uncouth to arrange a private tutor for you."

America threw her hands up into the air out of frustration, unable to believe what she was hearing. "But Canada has a tutor! It's not like you can't afford one!"

"Canada's circumstances are different. He's been brainwashed by France and now requires a proper education," England reasoned, waving a hand of dismissal in his colony's direction. "I don't have the time for this argument right now."

She was quickly growing sick of this act. Ever since Canada had moved in with them, she had noted that he was immediately given preferential treatment and greater responsibility than she had ever been graced with. England trusted the boy to deal with some of the affairs in his own nation, while America was left on the sidelines and treated like a caged dog, expected to stay at home and away from the other children with nothing to keep herself occupied other than chores.

"But I want to learn history, geography, and foreign languages too! I might need to know these subjects in the future!"

England scoffed, tightening his fingers around his pen. "Such skills would never be expected of you, especially as a colony... A female colony nonetheless."

"So, that's what this is about? It's uncouth for a girl to study something other than how to be a seamstress? You remind me constantly that I'm not an ordinary human. Why shouldn't I be able to learn more about the world?" America asked bitterly, approaching England's desk and placing her hands on the smooth wood.

"You expect me to be too liberal with you at times."

America shook her head despairingly, tucking a chunk of hair behind her ear. "For someone who always talks about being proper and cultured, you're no better than the rest of that European scum across the damned sea!"

"America!" England scolded, slamming his pen down and standing upright. "Enough!"

The younger nation held her ground, fuming as she vaguely noted the hint of concern in her mentor's eyes; he was scared of her. She was growing rapidly, already sixteen in appearance while Canada still looked to be eleven. England chalked it up to her growing ports and cities, but America knew that something much deeper was the root of her growth spurt.

Hatred bred awfully fast.

"You best remember your place," England cautioned, looming over America with a pointed finger. "Get out of my sight at once!"

America felt her lips stretch into a sneer. "You can hide the affairs of my land as much as you'd please, but you'll never be able to stop the connection that I have with the colonists. I don't need to be able to locate nations on a world map to know that turmoil is growing between my people and the Crown."

"Your people?" England inquired with a raised brow, inwardly seething. "You don't have 'people', America. See, this is where you are sorely mistaken. They are _my _people, and mine alone. You are my colony, and you will always answer to me, and until you learn to stop being so ridiculously naïve, it is the way things shall remain."

America furrowed her brows, a dry smile on her face. "Taxing them without representation after years of letting them roam free under salutary neglect? We'll see how long they'll stand for that. Not to mention that the Proclamation Line just added fuel to the fire. Your 'people' never felt the need to answer to you before. What makes you think they'll change their minds now? And I'm the naïve one?"

It was silly really, allowing such a confrontation to spawn from a disagreement over a tutor, but America could feel the bubbling rage of the civilians around her, and—being unable to control her emotions just yet—she easily felt all of her grievances begin to spill out of her mouth.

England, however, had apparently reached his breaking point. Scarlet faced and fatigued from dealing with constant affairs at home and abroad, he raised his right hand at America, hitting her sharply across the cheek.

Immediately, America held her face in shock, steadying herself after momentarily losing her balance. She gaped at England, wide eyed and terrified as the man whom she once ran to for protection seemed to transform into an enemy.

"You hit me," she gasped at him, feeling the sting of the injury long after the impact. "H-How could you—?"

England strained to align his thoughts, feeling both overwhelming guilt and never-ending frustration. She had pushed him too far, but even so, his actions had been uncalled for.

"Go to your room," the man finished coldly, gesturing to the door. "This conversation is finished."

Knowing that continuing wasn't going to accomplish anything, America spun around on her heel, knocking a precious and antique knick-knack off of one of the office's shelves. It splintered into multiple pieces on the ground, and offered her some solace.

"How's that for being lady-like?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**** I wasn't sure whether or not to change the rating to T for this story because of the short references to blood, but I'll leave it as is for now unless future chapters become more intense. K+ should still be enough for now. Regardless, please enjoy the chapter and feel free to leave a review! I always appreciate all of the feedback that I receive and it motivates me to speed up with the updates when I get a little discouraged and/or lazy. :D**

* * *

"At long last, I believe it's time for you to take up more responsibility around here."

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep silent, America claimed a rickety chair at the kitchen table, sitting directly across from England. Nowadays, he need not utter a word for her to comprehend his unspoken instructions; a simple wary glance of displeasure was more than enough. Clearly, he had prepared a lecture, and she would have to brace herself for a series of critical statements and complaints.

And she would not speak unless told to do so, because in her heart, she vowed that she would be the civil one, refusing to stoop down to his level. As far as she was concerned, she did not have to explain herself. Why should she always be the one on the defensive? No, the time to protect her dignity had gone and expired the day she had allowed herself to be tied to this man's reins of control.

"It has come to my attention that you have neglected a number of duties that every young woman is expected to carry out," England announced, tending to a cup of tea absently in the process. "From now on, you are to see to the importance of maintaining this household."

No amount of pain from gnawing on the insides of her mouth could have suppressed her dark smile at that remark. With a feigned air of sweet pleasure, she folded her hands in her lap and nodded, taking a moment to tie her hair back and away from her face. When she noticed England's inquisitive expression, she took it as her cue to speak.

"Let's be blunt, England," she whispered slyly, straightening her posture. "You want me to cook and clean, yes?"

"Precisely."

America smirked, though she could feel creases beginning to work their way into her forehead from frustration. "As I suspected… God forbid you were to approach me about managing the affairs of the colonies. No, I'm being assigned mindless tasks to keep me busy and out of trouble's way."

England flourished his usual frown and disapproving glare. They still hadn't completely mended the tears in their relationship after the fiasco in the man's office that had occurred a few short weeks ago, but America supposed that some things were better left unrepaired.

"Thank you for bringing me to our next issue; your atrocious behavior as of late. I suppose I must carry some of the blame, considering that I have seemingly failed to discipline you into a proper lady. Rest assured that this will change as well. In fact, I have planned to—"

A knock at the door interrupted them, and England immediately rose from his seat to address the visitor, only to be stopped by America upon arriving at the threshold.

Again, she flashed him a sickly sweet grin. "Allow me."

Leaving the flustered empire behind, America swung open the heavy mahogany door, charming as ever until her eyes fell upon the strange man dressed in an elaborate red uniform. Judging by the number of badges upon his crimson coat, he was a soldier of high-ranking authority. Nonetheless, he appeared anxious and breathless, clutching his side from a sudden cramp.

America's cheeky grin barely faltered, a faint blush cloaking its shadow over her face. "Good evening, sir. How may I be of service to you tonight?"

"I'm here to speak to Sir Kirkland."

"And you shan't speak to me first?"

A hand with an iron grip wrapped itself around her wrist, and she was roughly cast aside by England, who now blocked the doorway and kept her securely behind his back. "Good evening, Lieutenant Governor Thomas Hutchinson. What seems to be the matter?"

"A riot, sir! Just outside of the State House," he replied in a rush, hands quivering. "A sentry had been stationed to—"

England held up a hand, shushing the man's raspy outcries. "Say no more. I shall accompany you to the site in a moment."

Swiveling around to face America, he sent her a sharp and stern look, squeezing her shoulder to imply that she was to stay put and listen to his every order. "Amelia, take care of Matthew, and make certain that he doesn't stay up late again. I may not return until dawn, so there's no sense in waiting for my reappearance. Heed my previous warnings, yes? We shall finish our little chat another time."

Not being a given a chance to reply due to England already being out the door, America only huffed in response as a sense of lingering doom and fear swelled in her stomach. Staying perfectly still, she tried to focus on her emotions, nearly doubling over in shock as a flare of anger tore through her mind.

She could feel the discontent of the colonists boiling through her veins if she concentrated on it for long enough, and it was this physical burden that brought up the burning questions that she had been hoarding within the confines of her heart.

Would her future continue to be this bleak? Would she spend the rest of her days with England, cooking and cleaning for him to keep what ounce of sanity she retained? She had long outgrown this house and its ways, and she couldn't help but feel that she had the potential to be something greater than a housewife.

There were times, however, when insecurity would plague her. After all, she was just a woman, and though literate, she was far from knowledgeable about the affairs of the world and what the game of politics really entailed. She feared the failure and embarrassment of making a fool out of herself by blinding tossing herself into a world that she didn't belong.

Yet, this fear was not nearly as great as her trepidation over staying in this house with England for the perpetual future. As much as she was terrified of leaving, she was even more horrified by the prospect of staying and letting her soul decay in the house that had become the bane of her existence.

Therefore, she was left with a vital choice—should she stay and simply accept that this was the life she had been given? Or should she refuse to remain blissfully unaware of the concerns of her people and finally free herself and them from this tyranny?

America would quickly learn—or so it would seem—to never settle for the lesser and more fruitless way of life. Either she would spend centuries striving for all of life's splendors and possibilities, or she would crumble from her pedestal to sit among the ashes of nothingness.

Making her decision, she stormed up the steps and made sure that Matthew was already asleep, feeling a little solemn at the sight of him nestled against the pillows. She felt sorry for him, knowing that the boy had an almost subconscious need to please others. He never ventured out of line, faithful and honest despite the conniving tendencies of others. He was England's silent pride and joy, soft-spoken and mild in every sense of the word. Did he hold any anger toward the empire for stripping him away from France? Surely, it crossed his mind occasionally. Then again, America wasn't sure he'd ever seen the boy become angry in the first place. Instead, her twin merely carried a look of disappointment whenever things did not go his way.

Realizing that there would be plenty of time to consider these thoughts in more depth later, America swiftly made her way out the front door, shutting the warmth of the house behind her before heading for the State House. Whatever was causing this riot, it had deeply ingrained a seed of fury in a scattering of the colonists. She often felt their rage since the introduction of the Townshend Acts, but never had she experienced the radicalism that was now nipping at her nerves. However, there was and would remain to be only a minority of people who wished to oust British control in the land.

She probably should have changed into more appropriate attire for the chilly March air, but it couldn't be helped now, and she didn't plan on retreating. This was her obligation—to stand by the side of her people. And yes, they were her people, contrary to what England tried to convince her to believe.

"Slimy lobster-backs!" someone shrieked as she grew closer to her destination, acutely becoming aware of a cluster of angry shouts and curses.

Hesitantly, she rounded the corner and found the source of the trouble, breath catching in her throat. In a ruthless face-off, nine British soldiers stood in an impressive line in front of the State House, bayonets at the ready to fend off the growing mob of colonists before them. They were properly armed and in good physical condition, making it blatantly apparent that they would easily be able to fend for themselves.

Sickening horror overcoming her, America jostled her way through the crowd, watching as a few of the more hardy colonists began tossing rocks at the soldiers, screaming vulgarities and threats at them in the process. Snowballs and twigs flew over her head and toward the line of soldiers as more reinforcements appeared to scare off their belligerents. They were no more than fifty people in the crowd, but they seemed adamant about standing their ground against an enemy that was far stronger.

And in essence, America wanted to scream as well—wanted to beg the crowd to stop angering the soldiers, seeing as no good could possibly come out of this fight, but could not find the voice to do so. She was just an adolescent girl, helpless and unable to make a sound of protest lest she get hurt and threatened in the process. It made her even more furious to know that she could do nothing to stop this madness—nothing to persuade these people to listen to reason and to battle for justice through different means.

Such violence would accomplish absolutely nothing, but a single spark could potentially set off a blazing fire of destruction.

Fortunately, the man that England had spoken to previously came out upon the balcony of the State House, terse and limbs tense. "Return to your homes!" Thomas Hutchinson demanded, nostrils flaring as he beseeched the Bostonians to disperse.

Hoping that this warning would be enough to sway the colonists, America let her eyes wander upon the faces of the blacksmiths, sailors, bakers, and tailors, only to discover that no one had made a move to retreat.

And then, in a paralytic affliction, America held the urge to screech as the bloodcurdling sound of gunfire vibrated against her eardrums. Her knees grew weak and almost buckled beneath her as she stepped forward to take hold of the colonist who had been shot. Gingerly, she took his hand as a number of men began dragging him away to safety.

Life flickered in that delirious gaze, and America inwardly pleaded for the man to keep his grasp on consciousness, despite it being no use. She ran her fingers across the sticky blood leaking from the hole in his chest, unable to keep the surreal fog in her mind from taking over. This couldn't be happening.

Letting out a little stutter for breath, the man suddenly grew completely still, mouth gaping open and eyes dull as his head lolled to the side to meet the cobblestone ground.

"M-My god," America found herself gasping. She had just witnessed a man die at the hands of the redcoats… An innocent, unarmed man—aside from the occasional stone or twig. Struggling to steady her breathing, she noted that another man now stood dangerously close to meeting the wrath of another guard, and said guard did not seem reluctant to fire.

It all happened so quickly that she hardly had a chance to blink before mass hysteria overtook the crowd, leaving her struggling to reach the front of the mob.

"MURDERERS!" the colonist who stood directly in front of the redcoat shrilled mercilessly. "FILTHY MURDERERS AND THIEVES!"

Seeing that the bayonet was aimed at the man's heart, America quickly swept over to the colonist's side, shielding him from injury.

"That's enough!" she declared, arms outstretched as she stunned herself with her own bravery. She imagined what the man behind her must've been thinking, seeing a woman come to his rescue. For a moment, she worried that he would mock her and shove her aside for being reckless, but the colonist seemed to be stuck in a petrified state.

Nonetheless, the redcoat sneered in response, eyes glinting savagely. "Get out of the way, stupid girl."

"You'll have to make me."

Not expecting the man to strike a child, America felt her eyes widen in awe as the bayonet pierced her abdomen, sending her to the ground in a trembling flurry of burning pain. She felt herself scream but could not register her own voice in her ears, too terrified to hear her cries of pain as she laid prostrate, gazing up into the eyes of the man she had defended. She felt liquid graze her skin, but made no movement to swipe it away, finding herself much too tired to attempt lifting her arm.

"Why—Why would you do such a thing?" the colonist finally asked her, not awaiting a response as he made sure that the shuffling crowd did not trample her body.

Feeling her own consciousness slip this time, America released a shaky sigh, taking slight comfort in the fact that she would not die from this injury. She looked past the man's head and at the starlit sky, at last feeling as though she had done something right in her meager existence. "Had to."

"Thank you," the voice rang from above, now barely audible.

Subsequently, time seemed to stop and distort around her figure as she heard her name being called frantically in the distance. Blurry images moved in a sluggish, film-like quality before her eyes. She tried to cry out to the person searching for her, recognizing the sound from somewhere, though she could not quite place its origins.

"Amelia!"

She groaned loudly and pronouncedly, feeling her stomach do a somersault as her vision cleared just enough to locate those concerned green eyes gleaming back at her. He was on his knees and cradling her head as she pictured herself resembling a flopping fish that had found its way out of water.

"Can you hear me, love?"

She tried to say "yes", but only managed a half-hearted garbled noise that tore its way out of her throat. Then, she was being held in someone's arms and lifted softly from the ground, moaning once more as the movement only further irritated her triangular shaped wound. A feverish state came upon her, holding her in what felt like a perpetual state of delirium and incoherence. Every once in a while, she would blink and catch a few flashing images, such as the disappearing mob and the twinkling stars above her. And she wondered, vaguely, what it felt like to be dying. Perhaps, it felt a little something like this, where one moment she was awake and aware of her surroundings, and in another, she was in a peaceful sleep of pure abyss and cathartic serenity.

Somewhere above her head, cooed words drenched in gentleness were directed at her, keeping her in her dreamy state, and, when she opened her eyes again, she found herself in a bedroom, lying on a plush mattress mutely. She recognized the bed, but it wasn't the one that she was accustomed to sleeping in.

Trickling water in a bowl caught her attention, but she still found herself to be half-conscious of the actions being made around her prone figure. It wasn't until something cold and wet was placed against her stomach that she was finally roused out of her dozing.

And one thing was for certain, the liquid against her skin wasn't water!

A brutal stinging sensation sent her reeling forward, bending her at the waist as she fretted over the pain. Yes, she was as alive as ever, much to her chagrin.

"Damn it!" she cried, nails digging into the palms of her hands as the dripping compress was applied once more and left at the site of the wound. "Get it off!"

England sat on the edge of the bed, hushing her futilely as he pressed the rag even more firmly against her abdomen. "Stay still. The vinegar will help the healing process. This is the price you must pay for being an idiot. I won't even ask what possessed you to disobey my orders yet again."

"You don't have to ask," America assured in response, wincing as she attempted to swat away the hand that was prodding her abdomen. "I'll simply tell you… I—I would rather die for the cause of my people than die at your hands."

At first, England's face flared with fury again, but once the words had sunken in, and America could no longer find the energy to speak, his expression became incredibly mournful and—for lack of a better word to describe such a raw emotion—sad. In fact, he looked as though he might shed a tear for a moment, but righted himself immediately.

He opened his mouth to speak, straining his throat to say what was troubling him. "I'm sorry, America. This was exactly what I was trying to prevent. Our political states have—you wouldn't understand. We're both guilty of the crime; placing our nations ahead of ourselves…"

It was difficult to understand what he was getting at, but America supposed that she didn't want to hear any of his explanations anyway, and thus, turned her head to the side resolutely.

"They had strict orders _not_ to shoot, America. There will be a trial to hold those who are guilty accountable for their crimes. I would never—never stand for the killing of unarmed civilians. However, I cannot control what humans do. You know that full well," he muttered, removing the compress and shuffling about to locate the bandages he'd collected.

America scoffed—so that was his defense? A simple misinterpretation of orders? What about the rest of the offenses that the British Empire had committed against its colonies—the first being the shameless occupation of Boston, where tax collectors would harass workers for money, knocking down doors and destroying shops to have their fill of fun? Can't pay on time? Prepare to be used as an example to the others through mockery and verbal harassment before being arrested. Be warned, they might also take a few of your valuable possessions to even out the playing field. After all, dirty Yanks were meant to be treated as second-class citizens when compared to the English-born.

Don't like our policies? That's all right, we'll just try you for treason and have you hanged.

"Save your apologies."

"America, much of this is difficult for you to—"

Twisting out of bed and aggravating her injury, America felt her temple throb with the beginnings of a migraine. "Don't tell me that I don't understand! I fully understand what is happening to this land, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. Each day, more and more civilians are realizing that they have had enough of you! I don't blame them for starting a riot! You haven't given them the opportunity to represent themselves, and simply do what _you_ think is best for them at the given moment."

Filled with alarm and worry, England gently took hold of America's shoulder and guided her back to a seated position on the bed. "_I'm_ not the problem. It's—"

"Oh, just stop. I've heard enough of this."

England clicked his tongue but decided that they were due for another discussion in the future, and it could wait for now. "Very well. I'll bandage your wound and allow you to sleep. It's been a long day."

For some reason, it bothered America to hear England still continuing to fret over her like he truly cared.

* * *

"I'll be back before you know it. Take care of your brother and show that you can be trusted to keep things in order. Make me proud, hmm?"

America quenched her urge to laugh and smiled charismatically instead. Her smooth gestures and false pleasantness were so routine and rehearsed that one might mistake them for sincerity at times. "I'll do my best."

England nodded, and hesitated in place for a moment with an internal battle before he bent down to embrace America in a stiff hug, surprising them both. "I expect you to respond to my letters."

It was a strange feeling, but America berated herself for actually finding comfort in the hug. For the slightest moment, it didn't feel like England was an empire who couldn't be bothered to spare a second glance at her. No, he felt like actual family—a travel-weary father who regretted leaving his children behind.

And, she'd be a liar if she'd claimed that she didn't wish she'd had a family of her own sometimes. What would it be like to have a husband and children or even a mother and a father? Family was mostly a human concept, but she still felt her inherent human senses kick in sometimes, begging her nation-self to answer said questions. Cousins, grandparents, in-laws, aunts, and uncles—all concepts that eluded her.

Then, England shared an embrace with Canada as well, though he had to bend down considerably more, since the boy was still so small. Actually, America wasn't sure that she could say that he had even grown an inch since he had moved in with them. Perhaps he was twelve in physical stature now, but certainly no more than that. America, however, noted that she was quickly approaching seventeen at an unbelievably rapid rate.

Obviously, though he would never admit it, England was probably frightened by this as well.

"Well, I suppose I'll be on my way then."

"Goodbye, England," America said with prowess, one hand on Canada's shoulder. The smaller boy waved his hand at the man, still timid around the other's presence even after all of the years that they had spent together.

With one last sorrowful glance, England disappeared behind the door and into the carriage that would transport him to the docks, leaving behind the house that he had grown accustomed to since America's founding.

And then, he was completely out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.

"Time to get going," America said with a little smile at Canada, releasing his shoulder and rushing up the steps with a premeditated goal. She entered the washroom, rummaging through a few drawers frantically before finally finding what she was looking for—a pair of silver scissors. "I thought he'd never leave."

Trailing behind and shrinking back slightly at his sister's actions, Canada warily watched America grin at her reflection in the mirror. She took hold of the long braid that she had shaped her hair into earlier that same day, slicing the scissor's blades through the top.

Canada felt his eyes widen, and he dared to take a few steps forward. "What are you doing?"

Holding the strands of hair in her hand as though they were some kind of trophy, America felt the long suppressed laughter escape her upon meeting Canada's terrified gaze. "Just giving myself a haircut," she replied innocently, waving the detached braid in her hand victoriously.

Staring at his sister as though she had gone mad, Canada frowned at the short bob of hair that America had left herself with. "B-But it's improper for ladies to have short hair!"

"Don't worry, I'm going to make it even shorter."

"Why?"

"Because there's something I need to do, and I can't do it with long hair," America explained very calmly before throwing her cut hair into the garbage bin and setting down the scissors. She moved to stand in front of Canada and crouched down slightly to be at eye-level with him. Tenderly, she took his hands in hers and smiled warmly. "You don't have to worry about being proper and whatnot now. We've got the house to ourselves. Don't you see? We're free to do as we please."

"England said he's going to send the nanny to check—"

America rolled her eyes. "Yeah, she'll come here once a month to make sure we haven't found a way to magically kill ourselves. I don't know about you, Canada, but I've had enough of England. I want to live and start my own life. I want to understand my people and take my nation back."

"Your nation?"

"Yeah, and you should do the same. Look, you're a big bookworm, right?" she teased lightly. "Read some of Thomas Paine's work when you get the chance, then you might see what I'm getting at. I've been teaching myself to read better, since England only taught me the basics, and it's been working out really well! Plus, you know those teachers down at the old schoolhouse? I'm hoping they can help me to learn everything I've missed out on."

Her twin glowered. "But they don't teach girls."

"Yes, but they don't have to know that I'm a girl."

"I don't think this is a good idea. Maybe, if you told England that you want—"

America clapped a hand to Canada's mouth, stopping his protests. "No matter the circumstance, England can't know about this, okay? This will be our secret. Besides, I've already talked to him about finding a teacher, and he said no. Canada, you can't always wait for people to grant you permission to do things. Sometimes, if you really want something, and you know it's the right thing for you, then you have to just go out and get it yourself. You can't rely on anyone but yourself."

Trying to comprehend why America was so worked up about doing things on her own, Canada nodded to please her. Everybody had their place in life, and his place was to be a colony, and that was that. Why should he try to change what had already been decided for him?

"And then, when I've gone to the schoolhouse long enough, I'm going to talk to the Sons of Liberty. Have you heard of them?"

"No."

"Well, I think they'll be able to help me with what I want to achieve. I guess you're not supposed to know about them anyway because they're an underground organization."

Canada knitted his brows that time. "Don't you think that's kind of dangerous?"

"It'll be fine. It's not like I can get killed." America reassured, trimming her remaining hair to fit the frame of her face. Even Canada could tell that she already looked quite a bit more boyish.

"But still, it would be painful if you got injured."

"I don't care," America deadpanned, snipping away another pesky strand of a dark blonde lock. "This isn't about my safety anymore. I'm after something so much greater than that. I refuse to wait for England to grace me with a little more responsibility and freedom. I've realized that I have to take matters into my own hands. You should do the same."

Canada shook his head, perturbed as he began to leave the washroom, pausing momentarily in the hallway. "I won't."

"And why is that?" America called to him absently, not really paying too much attention to her brother's complaints.

"Because you'll never succeed. England's just too strong. He'll find out that you're _personally_ rebelling against him before you even leave the house."

Startled by the words, America raised her eyebrows and dropped the scissors on the counter. Steeling herself, she squashed the fear in her gut, running a hand over the scar that she had received from that day outside of the State House.

"We'll see about that!"

Canada shrugged his shoulders, already back in his and America's bedroom, debating on whether or not he should draft a letter to England expressing his concerns. If the man was left unaware, then Canada would gladly enlighten him, if only for America's protection and nothing else.


	4. Chapter 4

"Class, I'd like you to welcome our new student, Alfred Jones."

America apprehensively stood in front of the roomful of students, stunned by the sheer number of people staring back at her. Surely, there were no less than sixty children in the room, ranging from the age of four to twenty. The older students were crowded into their own cluster in the back, occasionally offering help to one another before going back to their individual studies.

Despite the large variety in age, there was one characteristic that was entirely unanimous among each of the students; they were all males.

"Please, take the time to answer any questions he may have throughout the day. Now, back to work."

With a clap of his hands, the teacher invited America to take a seat before going about his usual routine of dealing out assignments and making sure that everyone was on task. The man was rather young and seemed relatively unexperienced, but America supposed that she could always teach herself if necessary, as long as she had the proper resources.

Taking in a deep breath for reassurance, she slowly made her way to the back of the schoolhouse, gripping her homemade copybook—which was used for perfecting her letters—closer to her chest. As of the moment, her plan was unfolding without a hitch. Enrolling had been a slight problem, seeing as she needed the presence and signature of a parent or guardian to register as a student, but after a tearful and sentimental explanation that her father was working overseas, they had allowed for her to bring a 'mailed' signature instead. Thus, she easily forged England's handwriting from one of the old documents stowed away in his office.

Next, there was a problem regarding the fact that England was not a churchgoer (at least not during his stays in the colonies, as Anglican churches were rare in New England), and thus, did not contribute to the church, which funded the schoolhouses. America herself was not much of a Puritan or religious individual in general, but she knew that the colonists took religious education very seriously, and if England was not seen as a 'good and wholesome Christian', they might not let her attend for very long.

Therefore, for the meantime, she had given the schoolteachers a fake address to England's house in London, hoping that she might be able to sit in on a few more lessons before being caught. The school intended to have England donate to the parish to compensate for the cost that the other colonists were mandated to pay in order to support the church's work.

But she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

For now, she was simply relishing in the satisfaction of fooling everyone into thinking that she was a typical, Bostonian boy. Using the aid of a few cosmetics, she had managed to contour the features of her face, making her look a little rough and gruff around her cheeks and jawbone. She had flattened her breasts under tight undergarments, and mussed her newly cut hair to make it appear more unruly and wild.

"Alfred, here is a copy of '_The New England Primer_'. I'd like you to start working on reading two syllable words," the teacher suddenly ordered, bringing America out of her daze and guiding her to an empty albeit stone hard and backless bench.

"Yes, sir."

Flipping the textbook open to the correct section, America sighed and tried her best to read the words with the teacher looming over her figure expectantly. She made sure to make her tone sound huskier, realizing that she was still supposed to be playing the role of a sixteen-year-old adolescent boy. "A-Ab…Ab-sent. Absent?"

Nodding to himself, the teacher crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded her all-too-much of her 'terribly busy father laboring abroad'. She had to admit, even she had been surprised at her acting abilities. "Very good. Continue."

Chewing on her lip, she tasted the next word on the list, whispering it under her breath for a few times before speaking. "Bab-ble. Babble… C-Cup-board."

"That's correct. Continue your reading while I tend to the other students. We'll have a short recess soon, followed by our daily bible reading in an hour."

Aiming her glower at her ancient and worn textbook, America suppressed a groan. She was here to learn the skills that she would need to fend for herself in the world of politics, and she was almost certain that a bible would not help her to achieve that goal. England had never forced his religion onto her, nor made her read scripture, so why should she have to start now? Sure, she'd seen the empire mutter a few prayers in the past, but only for his own consolation and nothing more.

"Du-ty… En-close... Fa-ther… Glo-ry…"

After ten minutes of sounding out as many words as she could manage, the aforementioned recess finally came upon the classroom, allowing her to forgo the uncomfortable bench for the pleasant outdoors. As she suspected, the younger children formed their own clan in the yard as the adolescents gathered around the fence, looking out upon the main road leading to a bustling intersection of Boston.

Preferring to keep to herself, especially after years of seclusion under England's watchful gaze, America sat in the corner adjacent to the other teenagers and pretended to be extremely interested in her schoolbooks, testing out some of the more difficult words in the text. "Dil-i-gent-ly"

"Hey, Jones!"

Snapping her head upward, America cocked an eyebrow at the voice, locating its source after a moment of searching. One of the boys of the nearby group was addressing her, his grayish eyes glinting wickedly in the bright sunshine.

Reminding herself to be wary, America stood from her seated position, posture straight and tall as she walked over to the boy and his friends. "What is it?" she asked curtly, not caring if her response was rude.

"Aww, I'm just trying to introduce myself. The name's Gregory Harrison! I heard your father's a merchant in England."

Wondering how the boy had obtained such information, America felt fear nip at her insides. "Yeah, so what?"

"You seem pretty well-off… Couldn't he have gotten you a tutor, just like all of the other children who don't know an honest day's work usually get?"

Fuming, America gritted her teeth and clutched her books tightly. "I don't think that's any of your business, but I'm willing to bet you're the one who doesn't know an honest day's work, what with that pompous grin on your brutish gob."

A chorus of snickers and gasps of laughter erupted from the other boys, thrumming through the cloudless morning. Oh, if England could only see her now.

"Now, you've done it!" the boy screeched, plodding forward and attempting to tackle America to the ground. Fortunately, after many sessions of roughhousing with Charlie as a child and being naturally more agile than an ordinary female human, America easily dodged the attack, watching in barely contained triumph as her foe was left to eat a face-full of dirt.

Biting her tongue with a thin smile and dropping her books on the boy's rear, she laid a strong foot on his back, pinning him to the ground and leaving him to struggle beneath her weight. "My sincerest apologies, what was it that you were saying before? Something about me being 'well-off'?"

Thrashing and swearing, the teen screamed bloody-murder, alerting the school's staff immediately.

"ALFRED JONES!"

Noting that this wasn't the best way to start off her first day at school, America released Gregory Harrison begrudgingly, swiping her books back into the cradle of her arms with a small noise of exasperation. "I was provoked!"

Approaching the scene and helping the fallen boy to his feet, her new teacher glared at her sternly. "Provoked or not, you should not have resulted to sinful violence! Both of you are to follow me back to the classroom at once."

Heeding the command, America let herself be led away from the chaos of chattering children, reluctantly seating herself on one of the benches at the head of the room. Worriedly, she watched as the teacher withdrew the yardstick from his desk and ordered her to stand in front of his towering form.

"Hold out your hands."

"B-But it wasn't my fault!"

"Silence!"

Laying down her pride, America reluctantly presented her outstretched palms to the teacher, sucking in a breath of pain as the yardstick came down and hit the sensitive flesh of her hands, causing them to twinge and sting horribly. The process was repeated for about another twelve times before the man relented, sending her to her seat to copy some sentences from her textbook as Gregory received his punishment as well.

"I expect you to copy those three statements at least twenty-five times."

'Damn it,' America thought bitterly, taking her time to read the sentences before copying them down.

_I will fear God and honor the good._

_I will honor my father and mother._

_I will obey my superiors._

Maybe attending school wasn't going to be as effortless as she initially thought it would be.

* * *

"America!"

Cracking her aching eyes open and rubbing them thoroughly, said nation rose from the armchair in the living room, exhausted after a long day of school and chores. Since the nanny was neglecting her duties as usual, and was often absent without leave, America had been forced to cook for Canada and herself, doing her best to keep the house looking relatively well-cared for. England had been gone for almost two years now, and with the year 1773 hastily approaching, there was still no sign of him except for his constrictive rule on the colonies.

"What is it, Canada?" America murmured, groggy from her nap. "Let me be—I'm tired."

Clambering down the steps, Canada's breath hitched with a sob as he wailed unhappily. "B-But I—"

Recognizing her brother's genuine distress, America rose to her feet and swept over to her sibling, carding a hand through his hair. He'd grown a bit, probably reaching the human age of fourteen as she remained to be stuck at sixteen, strangely, not aging even a day.

"Are you all right? What's the matter?"

Her deep concern was earnest, mostly due to the fact that she had grown quite attached to Canada after all of the time that they had spent together. They depended on one another—each understanding that they were both young and yearned for guidance and familial connections.

Letting out a little cough, Canada felt more tears escape from his eyes. "My s-stomach hurts, and it's not a _normal_ stomach ache."

"You're ill?" America frowned, gently feeling her brother's forehead, which was sweaty and extremely hot to the touch. "How is that possible? Do you think it's being caused by problems on your land?"

Swallowing heavily, Canada managed to nod, resting his head on his sister's shoulder in fatigue. "What do I do? I wish England were here."

"Well, he's not here, so we'll have to manage on our own. Let's get you comfortable first," America decided, patting Canada's back and escorting him up the stairs and into their shared bedroom. When he was lying down and had calmed himself somewhat, she set a cold compress on his forehead and tried to think of something else to help her ailing brother, startled by the fact that she would be in charge of making sure that he recovered.

Feeling her bottom lip tremble, she spoke. "Oh, Canada… I'm so sorry that I'm so incompetent. I don't know what else to do for you."

"It's all right. You've done plenty… I always trusted you," Canada mumbled, his breaths labored. "That's why I always kept your secrets, America, because if there's anyone that's crazy enough to fight the British Empire, it's you. I didn't believe that you could do it in the past, but I never doubted that you would try. And, now I see that I was the one in the wrong. No one will be able to stop you, since you have the one thing that everyone else lacks…"

Heart swelling with happiness, America brushed Canada's hair back fondly. "And what's that?"

"A righteous cause worth fighting for."

Being rendered speechless, America settled on embracing her brother instead, holding him tightly and refusing to let go until at least a full minute had passed. "I love you, my treasonous brother."

"Hey! I'm not treasonous myself—I just—"

Laughing softly at Canada's flushed complexion, America pressed a sloppy and loud kiss on the boy's head. "I'm only joking. Now, you want me to read you something, or are you too old for that?"

"You're never too old for a good tale."

Nodding her head brightly in agreement, America plucked a book off of their shelf and sat beside her sibling. "How about a French fairytale? Ever heard of 'Beauty and the Beast'? The English translation came out not too long ago. I found the book down at the market."

"_La Belle et la Bête_," Canada reminisced with a serene smile. "France used to tell me this story before England took—before the war," he fixed, closing his eyes. "Will you be able to read it?"

Scoffing, America exaggeratedly widened her eyes and gasped. "Of course I can. You doubt my abilities? I've been studying long and hard for this very moment."

Chuckling, Canada waved a hand for his sister to continue. "On with it then."

"There was once a very rich merchant, who had six children, three sons, and three daughters; being a man of sense, he spared no cost for their education, but gave them all kinds of masters," America began, feeling the words leave her mouth with ease. Finally, she could witness the rewards she'd gained for her troubles.

"His daughters were extremely handsome, especially the youngest. When she was little everybody admired her, and called her 'The little Beauty;' so that, as she grew up, she still went by the name of Beauty, which made her sisters very jealous."

Drifting off, but still conscious enough to be antagonizing, Canada stretched his lips into a mischievous smile. "It's okay, America. You don't have to be jealous of my beauty."

"If you don't hold your tongue I'll show you what a beast I can be," America threatened harmlessly.

"Okay, I'm sorry."

And thus, the evening went on with America dutifully tending to Canada whenever he awoke from his feverish dreams, increasingly growing desperate as the pain and illness didn't seem to be getting any better. In fact, by the time she could retire for the night, she knew that she would have to make a rather difficult decision.

So, she stood in England's old bedroom, tears leaking from her eyes as she chided herself for finding some consolation in the familiar expanse of the room.

"You would want me to contact you," America muttered into the air, trying to imagine England sitting at the head of the bed, reading a novel as a piping hot cup of tea would await him on the nightstand. She wished things could still have been as simple as they once were. There were plenty of good and warm memories amongst the cold and angry ones, and part of her ached for an end to their differences.

Nevertheless, she returned to the situation at hand. What if Canada did not recover within the next week? What if this illness lasted over a month? What then? She couldn't possibly be expected to watch over him on her own, especially since she wasn't even aware of what was making him so sick in the first place. Canada needed England, not her.

But if she contacted England, then he would learn of all of the trouble she'd been getting into since he'd departed. She would have to stop her schooling and grow her hair out again. It would be easier for England to keep her isolated in the house again, and she would never be able to join the rebellion. Additionally, he'd be extremely suspicious upon realizing that America was literate enough to even write him a properly worded letter.

Was Canada's health more important?

Kicking the nightstand with seething rage, America sunk to the ground and sobbed, hands tightly clamped around her mouth to keep her from waking Canada, who was situated just across the hall. It was no use now, she knew what had to be done. Her mind had already been made up.

Locating a dusty quill and a piece of parchment, America began the arduous task of writing a letter to her parent nation across the sea.

_Arthur, _

_I regret to inform you that Matthew has recently grown ill, and I'm afraid that his condition is steadily worsening. Please, return to the colonies as soon as possible. _

_Yours Truly, _

_Amelia_

Surely, he would know immediately that she'd disobeyed him, but it was for the greater good.

* * *

_Dear Amelia, _

_By the time you receive this letter, I will already be sailing toward Boston. Watch over your brother until my return, and, at the very least, make an attempt at staying out of trouble until then._

_Sincerely, _

_Arthur Kirkland_

Folding the letter and storing it under her pillow, America dashed downstairs, making sure that Canada was restfully sleeping before taking her leave. It had taken an entire month, but England had finally arrived, as evident by the carriage waiting outside and the sturdy knock on the door.

As expected, Canada's condition had not improved, but America found relief in the revelation that someone who was more experienced in the field of malaise would now be able to tend to her weary brother.

She unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing England in and trying to hide her form for as long as possible from the man. Unfortunately, she couldn't hide for very long.

"Where is he?" England instantly questioned, dropping his luggage in the foyer. He finally turned to face America, flinching at the startling sight. "W-What have you done to your hair?" he demanded, completely and utterly livid as he reached out a hand to feel the short locks that America was sporting.

"We can talk about that later. It's better that you see to Canada first."

Reluctantly letting the subject slide, England hung up his coat and followed America up the stairs and into the bedroom. He 'tsked' at the sight, crouching down to get a better look at the child before lightly shaking him out of his slumber. "Canada? Can you hear me, lad?"

Nodding weakly, Canada let out a string of coughs, shivering as England laid a hand across his forehead.

"He's been like this for a month… Completely incapacitated. I don't know what's wrong with him," America supplied from the doorway, one hand resting on her cheek in distress. "I've tried to keep him cool..."

Withdrawing some type of herbal salve from the pocket of his trousers, England rubbed the substance into Canada's hands briskly. "There have been some issues regarding Nova Scotia. Anti-British sentiment, it seems…"

Flabbergasted at the news, America felt her lips twitch to speak, but failed to find the words to express her emotions. Rebellion? In Canada? How on earth had that happened? Canada had always been so complacent, seeing as England had allowed the French settlers to govern themselves and retain their formerly established customs.

"H-How?"

Furrowing, England sent America an irritated look. "I was expecting you to answer that question for me."

It took a few moments for America to understand the insinuation, and once she did, she gaped at the empire. "You're not implying that I convinced him to rebel?"

"What other explanation can you offer me? It's no matter now… The rebels have been crushed, and I presume that is why Canada is so ill. He should be all right once the controversy is settled," England stated, stroking Canada's hair for a few minutes before allowing the boy to go back to sleep. He made a move for the door, and locked eyes with America. "Follow me, my insolent brat."

Not being given any time to complain, America discontentedly trailed after the other and into his office. Like many times in the past, she found herself waiting for further instruction as the elder settled into his leather chair.

"Take a seat."

Deciding to be obedient for Canada's sake, America sat herself in front of the desk, head slumped as she waited for a long scolding.

"Lift your chin and look at me," England demanded, folding his hands calmly on his desk. "My dear, I must say that you've surprised me."

Meeting the man's gaze, America kept her expression as neutral as possible, unsure of what the man was going to do next.

"You see, you've caused me quite a bit of grief lately. I thought this rebellion business was just something to be expected from an adolescent such as yourself, but then I learned that you went against my every order and even went as far to enroll yourself in school. I suppose that explains the short hair as well, hmm?"

Horrified by England's seemingly placid demeanor, America dared not to speak, fully knowing that talking out of turn would only escalate the situation unnecessarily. They had to keep things civil, especially since Canada was still as sick as a dog in the opposite room.

"I discovered the little excursions you'd been taking to the schoolhouse after a letter that was supposed to be sent to me was apparently mailed to the wrong address. Thankfully, the individual who _did_ receive the letter informed me of the mix up."

Inwardly groaning, America closed her eyes and sighed. She should've foreseen such a scenario.

"As such, I took the liberty of writing to said schoolhouse, ending your lessons there permanently," England informed with an almost gleeful expression, rising from his seat to stand in front of his misbehaving colony. "I'm growing tired of this fight, America. Either you heed my final warning and stand down, or I will show no mercy in future conflicts. Am I understood?"

With the slightest nod, America begrudgingly conceded for the moment.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, I understand."

Satisfied, England leaned against the front of the desk. "And if I _ever_ hear you encourage any form of sedition, you will be punished _severely_. You shall witness the consequences of being a traitor. Leave your brother out of your affairs."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all. You're free to go."

* * *

The tavern was incredibly loud and full of drunken men, shuffling to and fro as they sang odes that had been passed down from one generation to the next. There was a certain brusqueness about them all that made America smile, emboldened by their apparent conviction to have their way.

She made her way to the back of the large room, pushing past a few people and over to the bar.

"Sorry, but we don't serve little lads. You'd best be on your way out," the bartender immediately warned upon sighting her, a disapproving frown appearing on his face. "Mum and Dad won't be happy if they catch you in here, huh?"

"I'm not here to drink," America insisted, pleased to find that the man did not recognize that she was, in fact, a young woman. "I'm here for a meeting."

"Meeting? Dunno what you're up to, but you've got the wrong place."

Adamant, America persisted. "It's very important, and I know that you're fully aware of what I'm talking about."

"If you don't clear off—"

Leaning forward and gripping the front of the man's shirt, America growled, "I want to join the rebellion."

Whistling impressively, the bartender chuckled, arms crossed against his chest resolutely. "Well then, why didn't you say so sooner? Head into the back."

Hovering behind the man, she was led into a storage area, where a small group of men were situated on crates of rum and gin.

"I've brought a new recruit."

"He's kind of young, isn't he?" one of the mysterious men asked, standing up to get a closer look at America. He scanned her face for a long moment, lost in thought before he finally held out his hand to her.

Gripping the proffered hand and shaking it slowly, America watched as the man smiled at her impishly.

"Welcome to the Sons of Liberty, ol' boy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Let's hope I reaped the rewards of an entire year of AP United States History. Enjoy the chapter and, as always, please leave a review! Reviews tend to make me type quite a bit faster. ;) This one is a little shorter than the rest, mostly because it's condensed with multiple events and I don't want to overwhelm everyone with a story that's too fast-paced.

* * *

_The Boston Gazette _

_Monday, July 12, 1773._

"_We cannot but be possessed with thoughts pregnant with the deepest sorrow, when on every side we behold the most bold invasions made upon our civil rights: Resentment against the daring invader, and distress of mind, for the wound liberty has already received, alternately perplex our anxious hearts […]"_

* * *

America imagined that discovering politics for the first time was similar to the feeling of seeing the world for the first time. A whole globe of issues and regional distresses greeted her, introducing her sentient mind to ideas that she had been utterly oblivious toward previously. Clusters of nations marked this land, and the thought brought her a joy unlike any other. For the first time, she was aware of the bountiful cultures that awaited abroad.

She had outgrown her blind patriotism for the British Empire.

England had done his best to limit her knowledge of foreign territories and empires, always keeping her trade restricted as she fueled his policy of mercantilism. America's raw resources would be transported to the motherland, where they would feed an industrial complex of factories that refined her goods and made them worthy of being titled as "British-made". Afterward, her colonists would rely on these supplies for sustenance, seeing as they were prohibited to trade with the French or Spanish merchants lurking about.

The more daring settlers took the risks of smuggling items from outsiders, and as the anti-British campaign grew parasitically in mass, many chose to opt for self-sufficiency, boycotting the products of their brothers across the pond.

And these blatant acts of protest and betrayal sparked a new life in America's soul. Suddenly, she felt so liberated, delving herself into the desires of her people. She had not recognized life until she had stepped out of the confines that had kept her grounded. Decades under England's rule, and she had never really_ seen_ the earth that she had come from.

She fell in love with the sheer exoticism of it all.

But summer gave way to colder months once more, and upon the arrival of December, it had been established by her rebellious companions that the time to act was now, especially after rumors regarding British tea being sold at a cheaper price ignited widespread suspicion. Remarkably, the British had ceased taxing multiple consumer goods, and while the tax on tea had remained, the cost was slight.

From her early days, America supposed that her people were prone to falling victim to conspiracy theories. Many colonists believed that the British were purposefully being lenient on the taxes to appease them. Then, they suspected that their sovereign nation would take the opportunity to lull their disloyal colonies into a false sense of security, ensuring that they would disregard other unjust policies.

There were plenty of more conspiracies regarding the future plans of the British, but America did her best to ignore them, understanding that no matter what the English did to lick the raw wounds they had opened, the colonists would not easily forgive their misuse of power.

Thus, it had been established that Boston would have to make itself a national spectacle yet again. They would convince their fellow countrymen to boycott British tea, and destroy one of the most prominent arteries of economic wealth that England thrived off of.

And, to add insult to injury, they would dress as Indians—a people that had caused Britain much grief over the years.

On an infamous night, December 16, 1773, America gathered with her fellow Sons of Liberty and made way for Griffin's Wharf, where the menacing ships would be awaiting them. Tomahawk in hand and dressed in a traditional headgear of the Mohawk Indian tribe, America followed the gathering of men toward the belly of the beast.

A man by the name of Leonard Pitt led their group while two other divisions made way for opposite ships. The British captains were taken down simply by the element of surprise, and when the rebels demanded the keys to the hatches, they were not denied. Terrified and caught unawares, they did not dare to stand in their way.

Exhilarated, America was sure she would never forget the moment when she had tossed her first box of tea into the harbor. The wooden crate hit the water with a whooshing sound, bobbing unsteadily before it was flipped over by the current.

"Break them open!" Someone shouted from behind, splintering the wood with their tomahawk before chucking it overboard.

The entirety of the event was surreal, and America found herself standing at the edge of the ship, eyes gazing at the calm water with a mixture of glee and regret. She wasn't sure how long she had remained in that position, but it must have been quite a long amount of time, seeing as by the time she had been shaken out of her daze, most of the tea had been spilled and some hardy men had gathered into rowboats, smashing up any crates that hadn't already been completely obliterated.

She made a move to leave the ship, stopping herself as a stunning image registered in her mind. Before her were a collection of armed British ships, circling them like wolves in the water.

"Don't attack," she said breathlessly at the sight, speeding off the boat in the hopes of bargaining with the other men. After all, they hadn't left a single scratch on the ships—solely vandalizing the cargo and nothing else.

However, as soon as her feet touched the dock once more, she was detained. Her arms were bound behind her back by two redcoats before they shoved her forward, forcing her to walk through the crowd of onlookers.

Grinning through a pant, America readied herself to be cheeky. She could easily outmatch these men with pure strength, so there's was no need to be worried that they might cause her harm. "Now, boys," she murmured coyly, rolling her head to one side to face one of the men. "Is this really necessary? This is no way to treat a lady."

It was safe to unveil her gender now, she supposed. After all, the dirty work had been completed, and she doubted that she would have to keep up the illusion much longer.

However, she had not expected the men to have already been aware of her situation.

"Quiet, girl," the redcoat on her left warned. "We have orders from Sir Kirkland to return you to him with as much force as we see fit."

"Oh, how lovely."

She sighed as she was deposited on the doorstep of their Boston residence. The men finally released her and waited a few feet behind, ordering America to knock on the door as they waited by the fence.

Hesitantly, she raised a fist to knock, halting midway when a voice rang from the other side.

"Come in."

Steeling herself, she gently pushed open the unlocked door, waiting in the doorway for further orders. Judging by the lack of Canada's presence and the silence in the room, she was in _deep _trouble.

"Have a seat," Arthur called from the living room, his voice sounding oddly nonchalant.

Never a good sign…

Ambling toward the man, she planted herself on the couch across from the empire, head lowered mournfully. Even then, she had her doubts. It was still clear that there were many loyalists in the colonies, and only a minority sought to fight the British. Her larger cities consisted of many rebels, but the more rural areas kept their voices hushed. Was she allowed to choose a position for her people, or should she let them guide her?

England sat in a chair that he had dragged to the center of the room, green eyes fixed on America's face as she tried her best to cower away, concerned that she might be met with violence after the man's prior threats.

"Is there anything that you would like to say to me?" he asked her coldly, throwing the burden of the conversation onto her lap.

Licking her lips, America felt her heart split into two opposing sides, much like the views of her people. Part of her wanted to seek the same guidance and warmth that England had always offered her, but politics had torn them apart, and she could no longer watch passively as his people treated the colonists like animals. Boston was slowly growing into a police-state, and she had to do something to protect it.

One look into England's eyes, and she could see what the man had been trying to explain to her for years, but it was too late…

She had never hated England—her mentor. No, she had hated the King and those close to him, and while England was one of the many people securing his policies, he did not have supreme rule. He was just a man, carrying the weight of the triumphs and mistakes that the monarchy made. He represented his people, but often didn't have much say in the King's ultimate decisions.

But it didn't matter, they had both let their titles as personifications take away the one human thing they had retained—a sense of family. Therefore, they were both in the wrong, and it would be difficult to make amends now.

They were both too drunk with power.

"England, I didn't—"

How could she have the nerve to apologize now, especially after all of the pain they had caused one another?

She wondered if England had found the will to hate her.

His expression drastically changed into one of rage at her inability to speak, fire in his eyes as he stood. "Gather your belongings and leave."

She had wanted this. In fact, she had wanted nothing more but to leave this wretched house, and now that she had the freedom to do so, she found herself unable to move.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Leave. You are no longer welcome here."

Involuntarily, tears sprung into her eyes. "E-England."

"I will ensure that you and these colonists pay every pound needed to compensate for that tea, and force will be used if found necessary. Until you can remember where your loyalties lie, you will not be allowed into this house," England stated firmly, stepping into the foyer and opening the front door.

Mouth gaping like a fish without water, America suddenly felt unsteady on her own feet, a wooziness overcoming her as she reeled away from the shock of this new information. "W-Where am I to go?"

"Since you claim to be such an adult, I'm sure you will manage just fine. And there's no need to worry because wherever you choose to reside, you'll soon have company. The Mutiny Act is being renewed through Parliament for the New Year, and there are plans to attach the Quartering Act to it, which will station British troops in the houses of commoners, should they need a place to stay," England elaborated, stone solid in stature as he held the door wide open. "This game of yours _will _come to a stop."

This is what it had come to, then. She had a clear choice to make—either she stay beside the man who had reared her from the time she'd been a pint-sized little girl, or she would gather her wits about her and side with the people of her land.

England, clearly believing that America wouldn't have the courage to walk out the door, had the decency to look betrayed and surprised as she ascended the stairs to collect some essential possessions.

Ravaging her room as she scavenged for things to salvage, America returned in under five minutes, eyes bloodshot but stern as she approached the threshold. Taking the opportunity to glance at her caretaker for the final time, she waited for him to say something that might rake the dead leaves of the happiness that they had once shared together.

England's eyes seemed to shimmer strangely in the light of the dawn. "America… You were the first."

Considering these words, she nodded. She was his first successful collection of colonies—she ushered in an era of greatness for the British Empire. "Perhaps, it was to be expected… Eldest on the run. Now you shan't make the same mistakes with the others."

With a flutter of movement, England began to close the door. "Let's not be rash. I shouldn't have—I lost my patience. Come back inside."

Smiling through a stream of tears, America shook her head with trembling shoulders. "I can't… You were right—my loyalties no longer lie here."

"My temper got the best of me. You're still just a child…"

"Remember when you used to read me King Arthur's tales?"

Voice strained, a vein bulged in England's neck in distress. "Y-Yes."

Brushing the tears from her eyes, America looked up at the house that she knew she could never return to. England had been correct, she was just a child, but it was time to become an adult. She cleared her throat softly and sniffed, trying to remember the words that would express exactly what she was feeling. "I edited the words ever so slightly, but the message is still the same. 'For any _woman_ may be a _queen_ in that life in which _she_ is placed if so _she_ may draw forth the sword of success from out of the iron of circumstance.'"

In a last attempt at mending what couldn't be fixed, England reached out a hand to tug her back into the house, but she gently swatted away the insistent pulls.

"This is my time of assay, England."

"America, there has been talk of possible _war_. You can't—"

She gave him a cordial smile, sympathizing with his concerns. "Take care."

And she walked out of his life just as abruptly as he had walked into hers.

* * *

The spring of 1775 had given them the shot heard 'round the world, but the summer of 1776 was unlike any other.

_July 4, 1776_

_The Declaration of Independence_

'_He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance. _

_He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures._

_[…] For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:_

_For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:_

_For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:_

_For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent: _

_For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:_

_For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences.'_

'_[…] He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.'_

It was brilliant—every bit of it. America couldn't help but smirk at every written grievance toward the Crown. Her people had finally documented the crimes being committed in the colonies and thrown them in the face of their ruler across the ocean in the most eloquent manner.

But she knew almost immediately that complete warfare was most assuredly on its merry way, especially after the battles in Lexington and Concord. England would do everything in his power to keep hold of his spoils.

She folded up the newspaper in her hands, tucking it away in the sleeve of her coat for safekeeping as she went back to kneading dough. It wouldn't be wise to let her superiors know that she was fully literate. Some skills were best left concealed.

She'd gotten herself a job at a local bakery to procure some much needed funds and had even secured herself a little cottage just on the outskirts of Boston. It was peaceful there, and she could safely remain hidden from curious bystanders. It was the best she could do, considering that there weren't many other options for a single woman such as herself.

After all, it was improper for ladies to work when they had a capable man by their side.

Living her life as a commoner had been difficult at first, but she supposed that if she had once survived a life in the woods, she would be able to adapt. Her hair had returned to its original length, and there was no way to conceal the feminine features and figure that she had grown into. Nonetheless, she embraced her life of 'being a lady', quite content with the decisions that she'd made for herself.

Apparently, England was aware of her new location and lifestyle, but he never intervened, remaining in the large estate she had abandoned, still accompanied by Canada. Part of her hoped that her brother would come to visit her at some point, possibly leaving England behind altogether, but the boy was most likely being pressured by the other to remain closely knit to his guardian, no matter the cost.

Now, she could only dream that she might one day be reunited with her sibling. It was as if that pair she'd once called family haunted her from a distance—their presence always lingering despite the changing tides.

Nevertheless, she went about her life, thoroughly considering the possibility of revealing her identity to those men that had signed the very declaration which she had just perused. When war came upon them, she planned to stand beside the militias of her land, if only to encourage them onward, seeing as she didn't know the slightest thing about military combat.

Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, Samuel Adams—she introduced herself to them all when the time had been ripe for battle.

But it soon became rather obvious that they wouldn't be able to face the greatest and most powerful navy on the globe if they didn't enlist in a few allies.

And that was when the real challenges began.

* * *

When she had first greeted France, America had been stunned by how different he was from England in every aspect of the word. At first, she'd been reluctant to seek help from another European nation, but she quickly realized that not all Europeans were alike after all. He was flamboyant and blatantly manipulative, strolling around as though nothing concerned him when, in fact, he had his own hidden agenda to manage.

"My, my," he had commented upon first catching her eye. "You could be my little Mathieu in disguise!"

"A shame he's fighting on the wrong side," America huffed, startled upon finding that France had actually laughed heartily at her retort.

"We'll sway him soon enough, _oui_?" he grinned a toothy grin at her, the fine stubble on his beard stretching across his chin. "You and Angleterre are very similar, _non_?"

Scoffing, she tried not to appear too offended by the insinuation. "No, we certainly have our differences, as has been made apparent by this war."

She was not quite so naïve to believe that this man had a bleeding heart for her struggling rebels. No, he simply wanted to make England even more livid than he already was, and honestly, America didn't really mind his selfish intentions. She could use all the help she could get, and France merely seemed intent on breaking any chances of a future Anglo-American alliance while he had the chance. In addition, having an alliance with a North American nation might be useful to him in the future. Having recognized this momentous opportunity, even the Spanish and Dutch eventually joined in on the fun.

'My enemy's enemy is my friend,' she inwardly mused.

And oh, how the pain had dragged on. The ache of warfare had been nearly as strong as it had been when she had experienced it the first time around. At least this time, she understood the cause that was being fought for.

When she wasn't lying in bed, blinded by an agonizing nightmare of throbbing muscles, she was doing her best to aid in the war effort. With the help of some considerate generals, she learned how to properly make use of a musket, and while she never did any actual fighting, she gained an appreciation for the hardships that her people faced on a daily basis. At one point, she insisted that she join the frontline, but it was established that she should withhold from such battling, seeing as she was a vital representative component of what they were trying to achieve.

She was their nation. They were fighting for _her_. It was all very difficult for her to wrap her head around. They had even started calling themselves Americans, abandoning the title of Englishmen.

And when it seemed that they had reached a stalemate, barely struggling to keep up with the British after years of bloodshed, the end of the tunnel was finally in sight.

It was the first time she had tried her luck and succeeded, because although the British still had a good amount of fighting left in them, they seemed to grow tired of their prey. Like a cat playing with a helpless mouse, they had eventually lost interest, spotting bigger and more valuable treasures on the horizon. Asia and the Pacific awaited.

They would come to regret this mistake.

The British people themselves seemed to sympathize with the rebels, turning their noses up at the ruthlessness of their troops against the Continental Army. It seemed that the British government struggled with many internal problems during the war, having no allies and relying on no one but themselves to maintain order. This black-sheep policy would come back to suffocate them.

Just before the announcement of the Treaty of Paris, America had met England on the battlefield one fateful night. It had been pouring with rain, cold seeping through everyone's uniforms. She had been called to present herself onto the scene by France, who'd claimed that it was about time to face her former guardian.

Thus, she staggered through the slushy mix of mud and grass on the ground, spotting England just a few yards away as her troops gathered behind her. He seemed more than distraught, chest heaving as he raised his head toward the sky, rain cleansing him of all of the impurities he'd been bearing.

"Arthur?" she queried, stumbling closer and closer until she felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her, all stunned with horror as England raised his gun at her, the barrel of the weapon directed straight at her forehead.

She heard the patriots behind her lift their own weapons to intimidate England, but if she hadn't been so paralyzed herself, she would've laughed. Hardly anything in the world could intimidate England.

"Stupid girl," he said with a low growl, soggy hair plastered to his forehead. "You've lost what little sense you had—thinking you stood a chance against me."

She gazed back into the man's eyes, seeing all of the pain clouded behind that fury. He still cared—that much was for certain. "Shoot me, then. End it now," she told him, raising her hands up in surrender.

A sob-like moan of misery overcame him, and she watched calmly as he negotiated with his inner demons. "I c-can't do it… I _won't_."

He dropped his gun with a thud before lowering himself to his knees, face buried in his hands. "My God, America, I could _never_…"

He didn't have to say any more. America merely nodded her head, eyes gentle and reassuring as England cried unabashedly into the palms of his hands. It was rare that she got to witness such a moment of weakness on his part, but she didn't hold it against him. As a matter of fact, it made her feel guilty to see England so shattered and upset. A part of her wanted to simply reach out and embrace him, but she suppressed the urge because she couldn't forget the many innocent deaths that had fought for this moment of liberty.

So, she settled on a statement that took the words right out of his mouth, "I wish things could have been different."

Independence at last, but her battles were far from over. It was time to build a nation.

The nation she'd always dreamed of.


	6. Chapter 6

_Articles of Confederation: _

"I. The Stile of this Confederacy shall be 'The United States of America'.

II. Each state retains its sovereignty, freedom, and independence, and every power, jurisdiction, and right, which is not by this Confederation expressly delegated to the United States, in Congress assembled.

III. The said States hereby severally enter into a firm league of friendship with each other, for their common defense, the security of their liberties, and their mutual and general welfare, binding themselves to assist each other, against all force offered to, or attacks made upon them, or any of them, on account of religion, sovereignty, trade, or any other pretense whatever."

* * *

Passion is hell-bent, for the most part—especially in its grass-roots stage.

But America was quickly beginning to realize that it would take more than mere passion for her to establish the stable and efficient government necessary to run her new sovereign nation. If she succeeded, they would be the city on the hill—proof that the ideals of a democracy could be achieved and maintained. If she failed, then she risked being wrangled back into the hold of another European empire. The land was like a slice of meat hanging from a tree, relatively unguarded and up for grabs should an opportune moment present itself.

And with all of the back-and-forth arguing taking place, America was surprised that they hadn't been invaded already.

Federalists and Anti-Federalists were pitted against each other, colliding head-to-head as they discussed the extent of state's rights and the potential need for a stronger national government. Immediately, the fear of another monarchy exploded throughout the meeting hall. A firm central government could send them spiraling back into the tyranny of a king, and they had shed enough blood to ensure the death of even the idea of a monarchy.

Yet, changes were imminent. The Articles of Confederation were weak and far too vague to be practical, leading to the stalemate between those interested in protecting the power of their states and those seeking branches of leaders to take control.

In a way, it was quite ironic that America had ultimately shaped her government in a similar fashion to Britain's, using the theories and political knowledge of multiple English philosophers to renew the Old World system.

No longer would there be a king, but rather, a president. Essentially, it was a limited monarchy without an actual monarch, and in America's eyes, it would be the key to their advancement as a nation. There were plenty of issues to tend to, and their new Constitution would usher in an era of industry and growth unlike any other.

The eyes of the world were upon them, and it filled her with both immense enthusiasm and paralyzing terror.

After a sequence of many migraines, they had finally tossed away their original composition of fundamental ideologies, trading it in for a much more thoughtful and organized document. In fact, she was so enthralled by the outcome that she even took the liberty of mailing England a copy, if only to irk him further. The preamble itself even held a particular _je ne sais quoi _about it.

"_We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America."_

It was certainly an improvement to be proud of, but their work was far from over.

America felt a growing new issue in her very bones, allowing herself to be consumed by an indescribable loneliness that she couldn't shake. It was ingrained in every image that fell across her sights—an inexplicable loss that had multiplied in strength over the years. She thought she'd recovered from the mental strain of the Revolution, but its remnants still seemed to follow her like a gray cloud hanging over her head.

She had returned to England's old house in Boston, seeing as the man no longer had any use for it. Some obvious renovations had been made to conceal its prior appearance, but it still held the same air that it'd always had. She could imagine Canada in his room, toiling over his lessons in geography and trade as England discussed important matters with his officials in his office.

And now, the edifice was devoid of life apart from her own soul.

The kitchen was untouched. She waited for the kettle on the stove to wail with vigor, inviting England to prepare himself a cup of steaming tea, but her patience was left unrewarded. Even then, she could still feel the residual connection that she'd had with the man.

And that's when she realized what the problem was—a lack of identity. Her entire existence had been a shadow of England's historic empire, and now she had nothing to recognize as her own. Her people had already begun calling themselves Americans, but what significance did that hold? What did it mean to be an American? Who was she, and who was she going to be?

These were the next questions that begged to be answered, and she could not find a solution to them as she spent her days in the abandoned house, hovering through each room like a ghost of the girl that she'd once been.

Canada's bed had remained in her room, and she stared at it longingly. If only her brother was free too, then they would be able to form an alliance together.

Or better yet…

She smiled wickedly, withdrawing the world map that Canada had stowed under his bed many years ago. Her eyes wandered up the length of the new borders of her land, and she hastily noted that she was still being contained by England's power in the north. He'd kept his soldiers posted on the Canadian border, and they occasionally leaked over onto her own soil. He was much too close for comfort, and if she could secure Canada for herself and rally her people to achieve the goal alongside her, then she might be able to commence the reign of her own empire.

And then, her dilemma might finally be solved. Well, that's what she'd hoped for, anyway.

But passion could be a feisty foe as well, leading her into territory that she should've known better than to encroach upon, especially with fresh wounds still littering her brief history.

* * *

She'd walked right into the lion's den, and she was an unwelcome guest, to say in the least.

"This is the result of children running around unattended," England had said, admiring the burning White House with mild amusement. Gun in hand, he'd lowered the weapon to his side, shaking his head with a smirk at the girl whom he'd once recognized as his daughter.

And though she looked quite a bit older than when she'd been under his care, he still felt a paternal affection for her that he thought he'd quelled decades ago.

She felt the sting in her chest from the affliction on her land, but it paled in comparison to the pain that she'd once felt during times of war. She locked eyes with her former caretaker, torn between being furious and comforted by the man's presence. They'd been ignoring each other for longer than she liked to admit, and it was oddly _nice_ to see a familiar face in the midst of the chaos she'd sparked.

"I wondered when you'd get here," she regarded him in the indifferent tone that she'd been rehearsing. "I'll admit that you did well in fooling my troops."

England laughed wholeheartedly at that, and America inwardly chided herself for finding joy in the gesture. "I didn't have to fool anyone. I had your yanks to accomplish that task for me. Your White House was left completely vulnerable. Be thankful that I didn't do any further damage. Perhaps, it'll be a lesson to you."

Blushing fiercely, America tried not to seem childish as she held back her protests, unsure of what to say without making an even bigger simpleton out of herself. So, she settled on, "Well, I needed my troops to practice on somebody, and you seemed like an all right candidate for the job."

"I'm flattered, truly," England droned dully, though there was still a flicker of glee in his startling green eyes. "I should've suspected this, truth be told. You had to inherit your thirst for imperialism from someone, hmm?"

She should've attacked him, yelled at him, or completely throttled him, but all she could do was gawk at the empire like a dying fish, incapable of forming any coherent words.

He grinned once more and stepped forward, invading her personal space as he took hold of the front of her lace blouse. He caught the material in a clenched fist, drawing America close. She rivalled his height—always having been tall for a female—but still felt like a child, craning her neck to get a good look at him.

"Get your fill elsewhere because you won't find anything worth your time here, America," he warned, directing the words squarely at her face and causing her to flinch. "Napoleon has been wreaking enough havoc in Europe as it is, and I don't need to be concerning myself with your silly games as well. Keep your distance from Canada, and all will be swell. Understood?"

Feeling slightly more confident and cheeky, America managed one of her sly remarks. "That's a pity… You can't even spare a sliver for an old companion?"

For a moment, she was certain that England would grow infuriated, but he did no such thing. In fact, he allowed himself a smile at the remark, eyes glinting. "You'll have to try harder next time, love. Build up a noteworthy military, and perhaps we can continue our sparring. You don't stand a chance at the moment, and I'd rather feast on more challenging targets. I'm willing to negotiate a truce and put this behind us if you've finished taking up my time. The Orders in Council have already been repealed, and, as such, there is little motive for you to continue this fight. Your trade with Europe has been mended."

She had hoped to form a name for herself—wished that her citizens would have connected under a common cause—but she now knew that she had achieved very little of what she had set out to accomplish. The support for the war was at a dauntingly low percentage, and she had done nothing but tear her own people apart when they had seldom been united in the first place.

"I have spent ten million pounds quarreling with you, and I'm certain that my wealth could be better invested elsewhere," England reasoned with a scowl, lighting himself a cigarette in the process. "Likewise, it has come to my attention that you've nearly driven yourself into bankruptcy. I am offering to spare you such humiliation, and there's no need to thank me, poppet."

His condescending lilt made her want to oust any thought of compromise from her mind, but she had to set aside her heated emotions to make the best decision for her people.

"All right," she had conceded, taking England's hand and shaking it firmly. "But only if everything is restored to the state it was before the war. _And _you shall accept me as a legitimate national entity."

Releasing a puff of smoke from his lungs, England considered his options. "And you shall never set your sights on Canada again, yes? Should I hear word of any potential American annexation of _my lands_—"

"Understood," America agreed, cutting the man off with her assurances. "There's always the Spanish," she added with a humored tone, pleased to see that England had found her retort comical as well.

"I shouldn't be so lenient with you, or I might actually be accused of being your _ally_, God forbid."

"Yes, we wouldn't want that. It'd be best if we continued to silently despise one another," America replied with a toothy grin of her own. She spared a glance at the smoldering White House, wondering if she'd be engaged in any future conflicts with the man. "You know, it _would _be favorable to have a strong ally across the Atlantic."

Furrowing, England snuffed out his cigarette with the help of his boot. "Prove your worth, and form a hatred for the French. Then, I'll send over my delegates," he murmured with another smirk.

"I don't want to fight you anymore, England. It's exhausting."

"Mind your greedy hands and there won't be any trouble."

It should've been an insulting request, but America paid it no mind. In fact, she was quite safe in the assumption that she wouldn't be confronting England for a very long time. No, she'd had enough of playing with the lions for now.

There were plenty of other ways for her to expand her reach.

* * *

The Wild West.

The concept of life beyond the frontier was romanticized even her own mind as the Polk administration tumbled into office and revived the need for imperialism. Manifest Destiny, some called it—a God given right for America to expand her reach from coast to coast, swallowing up land that had been left unindustrialized. Ever since the Louisiana Purchase, she had toyed with the idea of increasing her size, negotiating borders with Canada and pushing the limits that England had long set in place for her.

Her new nation spilled across the western half of the continent, but the problems that came with such expansion had been unprecedented. A lack of irrigation, loss of unity, recession, pet banks—it was all the result of her ventures out into the unknown. Eventually, the frontier disintegrated entirely, and she mourned over the loss of such mysticism.

And as if matters couldn't get any worse, following decades wrought such internal turmoil and sectionalism that she plunged herself into a Civil War, struggling to satiate the needs of both the North and the South.

The balance of slave-states versus free-states had long been a teetering problem since she'd reeled in new soil, and it had been apparent that she was only prolonging an inevitable battle with agreements such as the Missouri Compromise. Later, the constitutionality of such documents would be questioned, leading to bloodshed unlike any she had ever seen. The entire southern region of her nation had seceded, leaving her to scramble in maintaining what remained of the United States. Her border states became a crucial strategic asset in crushing the South's rebellion, but protecting 'Bleeding Kansas' had not been an easy feat.

She was two nations now, though she refused to recognize the second. Never had she envisaged that such a thing might happen to her. Though, for the first time, she was certain that this war would finally establish the national identity that she'd been seeking.

Then, there'd been that unanticipated day…

"You're here."

The words were laced with an exhausted helping of bewilderment, so much so that the crisply poised visitor ventured to take an uncertain step back, lingering in the foyer as he caught a peek of the disheveled living room. He barely recognized the figure lying prone on the couch, shallow breaths causing the girl's chest to rise and fall in rapid succession.

Sloppily, America's slender form sat up in an attempt to greet her guest, only to surrender with a sharp grumble of pain, falling to the couch once more. "Didn't think you'd come," she had murmured in the approximate direction of the threshold. "After that whole mess with Oregon."

"Yes, America, fancying the idea of imperialism yet again, are you? I daresay I can sympathize with such ambitions."

America mumbled something incoherent, drenched in her own sweat. "Can't say I agree with the whole 'Manifest Destiny' propaganda. Truth is, we stole half of Mexico's land."

"I wouldn't consider it theft."

America scoffed loudly, grimacing as she gasped and drew in another pocket of breath. "Coming from the person who raped and pillaged the Indians," she said accusingly, staring up at the ceiling as though something was looming over her. "Come inside, England—I promise not to bite. I've had my stuffing for now."

Softening slightly, England entered the living area with a lighter air, standing beside the other. However, he stiffened immediately upon seeing America's pitiful state. The girl was resting on the couch in a puddle of her own sticky blood; the substance had seeped into the fabric of the piece of furniture, making it turn into a sickeningly brownish hue.

England forced himself to look away, unable to witness the nation whom he'd once considered his child in such a poor state. Despite this, he would not offer the country any assistance, recalling the strict line that had been drawn between them, as well as the constant threat of another Anglo-American War that had lingered throughout the century since the War of 1812.

"Don't," America began cryptically, reaching up a hand and clawing at England like a lost kitten. "Don't leave. I just wanted to see you—I don't want to stir up any trouble. I know things have been shaky between us lately, but I just needed to talk to someone," she murmured, revealing her intentions.

She'd invited the man to visit her, explaining her poor health and political state, but she had hardly expected him to actually endure the trip, nor care enough to bother.

England pursed his lips, shoving America's hand away. This—this miscreant across the pond wasn't his problem anymore, other than the fact that she still had not paid off a number of the gracious loans he'd given her. America had plenty of expensive infrastructure to set straight, and England had jumped at the chance to have the nation in debt to him, mostly for strategic purposes.

Seeing her now however, it was very clear that he was not going to be repaid for quite some time.

"Is this the result of your barbaric slavery debate?" he asked mockingly, lowering his eyes toward the drying blood. "Rumor has it that your precious Union is fraying."

America frowned, reluctantly turning onto her side and pulling up her shirt, giving England a full view of the state of her back. "It's already broken," she whispered dryly, face pressed up against the couch cushions.

England winced, gaping at the gruesome display. A long laceration ran from between America's shoulders to the small of her back, appearing as though someone had taken a knife to the skin and tried to carve it.

"You're bleeding everywhere," England tsked when he had regained some composure, unable to come up with anything else to say. He watched as America brought her knees to her chest and let out a hushed semblance of a sob, body shaking in trepidation.

Berating herself, she sighed through her hysteria. "I'm sorry. I just—I never thought—"

Reluctantly, England awkwardly placed a hand on America's head, petting the blonde hair gently. "Why do you do this to me?"

"Do what?"

England clicked his tongue again, looking very frustrated as he tried to rationalize his actions. "Make me worry. You're an independent nation now; I shouldn't even be… Politics be damned, I can't be apathetic toward you."

America stayed soundless except for her uneven breathing, eyes fluttering shut with weariness as she registered the comfort that the hand running through her hair brought her. This is what she had been aching for since the beginning of the war. This is what it felt like then—fighting your own people. Had England felt such pain when she'd seceded?

Another sigh, and England had seemingly made his mind up. "Turn over onto your stomach. We're going to attempt to clean this."

"You can't stitch it up, it'll just reopen," America warned, watching warily as England meandered into the kitchen and returned with a number of rags.

He situated himself on his knees beside the couch, rolling out one of the rags to soak up the mess on her back. "Stupid girl…"

She grinned at the familiar remark, hissing as her back was cleaned and bandaged. "Thank you."

Still immensely frustrated with himself, England strained to acknowledge America's words. "You had better be thankful, you ungrateful brat. I shouldn't be bothering myself with this kind of petty nonsense."

"No, you shouldn't," America agreed, letting out a little sigh of pleasure once the pain had slightly diminished. "But thank you for doing it anyway. I-I was hoping we might someday be friends."

"Friends? Let's not get ahead of ourselves," England cautioned, disposing of the soiled rags and returning a few minutes later. He sat by America's feet, huffing at the girl with a sneer. "You're an absolute menace."

She managed a melancholy smile, the urge to sleep growing in intensity. However, it would be rude to fall asleep in front of her guest, so she forced herself to concentrate, scanning England's sulky figure.

He seemed to recognize her predicament, standing up and making a motion to exit. "Well, my work is done here. I wish you luck in ending the conflict."

"Wait!"

She should've hated England for all they had done to each other over the years—ravaged by pain and distress—but she still couldn't bring herself to do it. England was still a father figure in her eyes, and she felt isolated without him, stuck in a life of near constant turmoil. She needed someone to assure her that she was secure and that there would be light at the end of this grueling tunnel.

"Please," she beseeched, hating herself more with each spoken word. "Don't go."

England clearly struggled to undertake the request, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other as he lingered in the doorway, taking in the sight of the old home that he'd once resided in. "It isn't _right_ for me to be here."

She turned silent, certain that her pleas were falling on deaf ears as the man collected his things. Then, as he exchanged a final look with America, his resolve had been smashed.

And finally—_finally_—they experienced a semblance of a reconciliation.

Approaching the couch once more, England rested another calloused hand on the top of her head, brushing back the hair from her face. "I can't stand to see you like this."

She stretched her arms upward, minding her back as she wrapped the older nation in an embrace, shivering with pain and pent-up anxiety as he crouched down to return the gesture. "England, I—"

"Hush, before I change my mind and decide to leave," he ordered steadily, though his tone had taken on that tenderness that she'd missed. "I mustn't stay for long, but I suppose I could remain until morning, considering your miserable state."

She chuckled and withdrew her arms carefully. "Your company is appreciated. Now, would you mind helping me off of this godforsaken couch? It's already become the bane of my existence."

And though she didn't know it then, this war would mark the beginnings of an alliance that would last for over a century into the future.

But before that, she'd have to establish liberty for those whose voices were still ignored in the heart of her own grounds.

* * *

"Three-fifths of a person? It's unthinkable. I don't know how much longer I can withstand such lunacy. We're meant to be the living symbol of a free world, and yet, our own flesh and blood are being shackled to tyrants."

Expressing her grievances to President Lincoln only worsened the frequency of his bouts of depression, and while she didn't want to burden him with her own worries, he was the only one who could sympathize with her feelings of resentment.

"A healthy helping of lunacy is always desirable."

Scoffing, America caught the smile in the man's eyes and mirrored it, unable to suppress a half-hearted laugh. This brilliant man was made for such turbulent times, and she was sure that the war would come to an end under his leadership. She could see the burdens of his life on his shoulders, and his presidency had aged him. He didn't appear to be nearly as boisterous as when she'd first met him, and she would one day recall the enjoyment she received from simply watching him contemplate issues, wishing she could understand the inner workings of his mind.

He was a good mentor and friend, so when the war had ended and ushered in the Reconstruction Era, his murder had destroyed what little hope she'd had for potentially peaceful negotiations with the South. The fight for equality on her land would drag on into the future, and it would be an issue that would plague her for many years to come.

But at the time, she was still young and unsure of herself, utterly crestfallen at the death of such a great man who had dedicated every second of his existence to forming a better nation for his fellow countrymen to habituate.

And while time healed all wounds, she would occasionally lament upon his wise words for encouragement and strength, using them as fuel for the dreams that she still held for her divided nation.

"_With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds."_

Though she hadn't understood his ability to forgive so easily in the past, she knew that she wanted the entirety of her nation to return to its full form, and thus, greeted the South with open arms. However, not everyone had been so lenient.

But that was the natural course of life, and America would find a way to unite her people once more, no matter the cost. If they didn't stand together, surely they would all crumble.

And well, she'd drag her people onward, if necessary, before she'd allow for that.


	7. Chapter 7

"_You hold in your hands the future of the world." –French President Raymond Poincare (1919)_

* * *

One thing she had learned over the years was to always be wary of meddlesome Europeans.

At the time, separating herself from the remainder of the world through sporadic bouts of isolationism seemed to do the trick in warding off any potential intruders, but that was when she was just a budding nation, unable to fend for herself. However, times had changed since the days of her humble beginnings, and the eyes of the world were finally turned on her.

She didn't plan on letting that kind of momentous opportunity falter.

Thus, the end of the Civil War brought about a tedious era of Reconstruction. For the first time in quite a number of decades, America felt herself regaining her strength with a fervor unlike any other. An industrial boom sent her hurtling into mounds of much-needed revenue, relishing in the burst of wealth after years upon years of gloom and warfare.

Yet, her heart still contained an ounce of bitterness toward the lands that had once turned against her, so much so that when the South entered a poverty-stricken age, she directed a blind eye at them. She had assured herself that she held no grudge against the South, seeing as they were still her people, but a section of her soul struggled to accept the war-torn rebels back into her open arms.

With only their agricultural gains keeping them afloat, the weary South watched sourly as their brethren to the North were blessed with the riches accumulated from their factories and trade. Though the war had ended, some wounds would take time to heal, especially the wound containing America's bleeding civil rights.

But America had her eyes set on other goals at the moment. With the turn of the century came extreme unrest in Europe, and the smell of smoke was clearly detectable in the air. Quietly observing the swelling disorder in the Balkans, she wasn't surprised in the least as Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated, triggering the spark needed to light the flames for war. World War I, they'd later call it—a bloody massacre of attrition that would someday change entire concept of battle.

"You Europeans are a strange folk," she had told England upon their next meeting, directing a crooked twist of a smile in his direction. "Now, I would be happy to aid you in your cause, if you could find the will to ask politely," she murmured teasingly, already seeing the grand opportunity that this war could hold for her in the long run.

"I thought you prided yourself in being an isolationist? Your own president, Woodrow Wilson, has been preaching neutrality for over two years now." England remarked, taking a slow sip of his wine.

America merely laughed, eyes wild with excitement. Frankly, England seemed to be more than a little bewildered by her strange enthusiasm, fearing something that he couldn't quite place his finger on.

"I suppose we could make an exception. A little propaganda to raise public support shouldn't be too difficult, hmm?"

"My, my," England said with a low whistle. "You have changed the tune of your song, haven't you? I don't know what it is you're playing at, but I assure you that if you plan on using me to—"

Shaking her head firmly, America circled her way around the table that they were seated at. She laid her hands on England's shoulders, towering over his chair from behind his figure. Dipping her head closer to his ear, England could hear the smile in her voice. "Don't worry, _father_. I'm capable of tending to my own matters without your involvement. Far too capable, in fact. "

The words had startled the man, but by the time he had returned home to deal with the ensuing chaos, he had completely forgotten about America's cryptic messages, deciding instead to focus on his own troubles. Besides, the Allies needed all the help they could get.

Meanwhile, America was busying herself with rallying support from all sections of the nation, pleased to see that most of the help had been done for her in the form of President Wilson, whose speeches profoundly invoked passion and determination.

His address to Congress had been the icing on the cake.

"_The world must be made safe for democracy. Its peace must be planted upon the tested foundations of political liberty. We have no selfish ends to serve. We desire no conquest, no dominion. We seek no indemnities for ourselves, no material compensation for the sacrifices we shall freely make. We are but one of the champions of the rights of mankind." _

And so, America finally made her way upon European lands after avoiding their presence for as long as she cared to recall. She walked past the many trenches, the wafting remains of mustard gas in the atmosphere, and the innumerable casualties.

One never understood what war truly entailed until it was too late, no matter how righteous the initial intents had been.

_The war to end all wars_.

Somehow, she couldn't convince herself of such a thing.

Despite this, the world had finally witnessed her military might for the first time on such a grand scale. She had finally secured herself as a world power, and the respect and reverence that she gained from it made her hungry for more.

That is, until she discovered that England had been injured.

Exposure to mustard gas, it seemed, and America berated the other for it. There was no reason for him to be fighting alongside his men like a commoner, but he did it anyway, placing himself among his people to reconcile with his guilt for not being able to do more to protect them.

And, though it was remarkably idiotic of him, America admired his valor.

She gathered the finest rations she could find and made way for his camp the following day, holding her hands above her head to signify to his soldiers that she came in peace. Her hair had been cut yet again for the purpose of disguising her gender, seeing as a woman would be frowned upon for being on the battlefield.

"It's all right. Lower your weapons!" America had said sternly at the soldiers, displaying her unmistakably American military uniform.

Abidingly, the men had stepped aside, and she made her way for England's tent, letting out a little sigh as she tiptoed her way inside.

"_Johnnie get your gun, get your gun, get your gun_," she sang softly as she entered, recalling one of her most popular wartime tunes. It had been created out of the pure essence of propaganda, but she found a certain amusement behind it anyway. "_Take it on the run, on the run, on the run. Hear them calling you and me—every son of liberty_."

England had been roused out of his sleep, groaning quietly as he shuffled on his cot. He strained to speak, chest burning from having inhaled a large billow of mustard gas just under twenty-four hours ago. Nonetheless, he managed to gurgle an anguished, "America."

Setting down the food at the foot of the bed, America opened her canteen of water and offered it to the elder nation, never halting the haunting melody. "_Hurry right away, no delay, go today. Make your daddy glad to have had such a lad_."

Grimacing sullenly, England propped himself up on his elbows, releasing a string of breathy coughs. "Good Lord…"

Clad with a goofy grin, America continued gleefully. "_Tell your sweetheart not to pine—to be proud her boy's in line._"

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, England tried to drown out the lyrics to no avail. "America, I—"

"_Over there, over there! Send the word, send the word over there! That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming! The drums rum-tumming everywhere!" _America went on, patting England's head as though he were a restless child.

Irritated albeit bemused, England finally cracked a smile through a labored breath, blinking up at America exasperatedly.

"_So prepare, say a prayer. Send the word, send the word to beware! We'll be over, we're coming over, and we won't come back till it's over, over there!" _

"George Cohan?"

Taken aback, America gaped down at the man with wide eyes. "How did you know he sings that song?"

Huffing, England swallowed heavily with a wince. "Unfortunately, your music has made its way to my shores by some merciless feat."

"Well, it's good to know that the Brits have been exposed to some long overdue American culture," America retorted, quite smug as she motioned for England to take another swig of water from her canteen. "So, how are you feeling?"

"Bloody _fantastic_. Thank you for asking," England returned darkly, rotating his shoulder to rid himself of the muscle pain there. "I reckon I could spare a lung if necessary."

Frowning slightly, America tried to keep up her cheer. "Well, it's a good thing I made it here to offer you a hand, huh? Did you miss me?"

"I would've preferred to see Canada while on my death bed, truth be told."

Thoroughly deflated now, America took a seat on the edge of the bed, eyes twinkling with a glimmer of relief at the man's sarcasm. He'd be as right as rain in no time with cheeky remarks like that. "I'll round him up later. Until then, you'll have to settle for me."

"What a shame," England antagonized, clearing his throat roughly. "Though I suppose your company is better than none at all."

Laughing lightly, America ran a hand through her short locks. "Hmm, that was nearly a compliment! Should I alert the medic?"

"Perhaps, though I'm afraid this is an injury that might be beyond repair."

Smirking, America watched quietly as England began to pick through the rations she'd procured, chest heaving with every movement. "On a more serious note, how are things going?"

"I've been through worse," England assured dully, pulling a biscuit out of its packaging. "And I daresay you have as well."

Nodding in agreement, America toyed with the buttons on her uniform. "Why do you do it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Putting yourself out on the front-line like that," she clarified, directing her gaze into her lap. "Doesn't it frighten you?"

The man considered the question for a long moment, eyes alight with a commiserative gleam. "To better understand my people, I suppose… Other nations do it as well."

"I've tried doing it myself, but I could never bring myself to stay among my men for very long. Call me flighty if you'd like…"

"You wouldn't understand. Part of it is merely a selfish matter of pride. You're a woman, and it's unseemly for you to be on the battlefield anyway."

Flaring up at that comment, America straightened her back defensively. "I can fight as well as any man!"

"I don't doubt that," England muttered with a little chuckle, meeting America's eyes with an inquisitive glance. "But I doubt you'll find the need to prove yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

In all of the years she'd known England, he'd never looked at her in such a curious way, eyes boring into her thoughts. He seemed to know something that she hadn't quite deciphered yet, and his mild and slightly incredulous demeanor made her want to follow his reasoning.

"What is it?" she pressed, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

Realizing he was being impolite, England tore his gawking gaze away, busying himself with another biscuit. "It's nothing… I was merely lost in thought. Now, let's discuss our next movements."

And once again, the plight of the moment was lost on her, but she would live to see that look in England's eyes again someday, though it would take her decades to fully grasp its significance.

Because when he looked at her, he no longer saw a miniscule child wandering around in a wheat field. No, he saw something much greater—something he had suspected many years ago. It was ironic in a way, and it filled his heart with both indignation and delight.

Right before his very eyes stood the woman who would someday be the living and breathing symbol of the free world. Oh, what a fool he had been for not recognizing it sooner. It was people like America—with those wild eyes and a burning heart—that could irreversibly change the world.

This formerly intriguing little girl had transformed into an adamant woman clad with ingenuity and astuteness, such that he almost found himself shrinking away from her terrifying deftness.

A humorous twist of fate…

* * *

To the victor go the spoils, and thus, America bathed in unprecedented wealth. With the war meeting its end, her economy had been rewarded for her contributions. The Treaty of Versailles had settled her fate as well as the destiny of Europe. Though she could still sense future controversy wriggling under the surface of their momentary peace, she decided to do what she did best—retreat into her glorious isolationism.

Except, she was met with an unanticipated issue…

The world had turned to _her _now, and it would be nearly impossible for her to hide away from the other nations now, especially with her booming industries and growing military. Nevertheless, she would come to pay the consequences for her actions, but until then—she danced with the riches of her land.

The Roaring 1920s promised nothing but lavish lifestyles for those who held the income of the nation. A massive crevice had formed between the rich and the poor, leaving no room for a wilting middle-class.

She herself was a witness to it. In the mornings she would find herself indulging in the finest prohibited liquor, liberated as every aspect of her culture became more scandalous and promiscuous in every sense of the word. For the first time in a long era of subdued frustrations, women were permitted to pride themselves in being rebellious, chopping their far-reaching locks and shortening their dresses. They smoked and drank and partied, and though some criticized the 'flappers', many welcomed the change.

Finally, she felt more welcome in her own country. She no longer had to live with the fears that she had once hoarded for the greater good.

By night, she walked the long stretches of slums littering her urban cities, failing to reconcile with the disconnection between the wealthy and those living under the gray smog of abject poverty. From a distance, New York bustled with life and prosperity, and even she believed that the streets were paved with gold. However, upon closer inspection, she knew that such greediness would eventually be punished.

And it was.

It seemed to have happened so suddenly, though she had predicted it with a rumbling feeling of dread in the past. In one moment, the world was her oyster. In the next, she was weak and frail, burning with a strange and never-ending fever caused by what became known as 'The Great Depression'. The humming engine behind her cities suddenly shut itself off, and her land became shrouded in desperate calls for relief. The hungry stalked the avenues, and America was presented with yet another hurdle as her banks collapsed, inviting vital reforms. Europe was brought down along with her, and they all plodded along together, something which she had never experienced before. The world economy had become interconnected, crumbling like a line of dominoes at an inconceivably rapid rate.

"America? Open your eyes."

The voice tore her out of her fevered dreams, and as an indescribable weariness settled in her bones as she blinked back at her savior. "Canada?"

"I figured you'd need someone to tend to you," her twin informed her gently, attempting to spoon-feed her some kind of gooey mash. "No one expected something like this to happen, especially not now."

Grumbling indistinguishably, America reached for Canada's arm, tugging him closer. "Don't think this makes me indebted to you."

"Of course not," the other reassured with a dimply smile, prodding her mouth open with the silver spoon. "It'll be all right. You've been through recessions before."

"Not to this extent."

Furrowing, Canada continued encouragingly. "Nonetheless, you'll pull through. You might be happy to know that England's on his way here as we speak. In fact, he should be here any moment."

Scoffing derisively, America turned her head away from the pestering spoon. "What does he want? Didn't anyone tell him that I'm clearly not in the mood for visitors?"

"Oh, yes. The entirety of Europe is talking about you," Canada informed casually, one brow raised above the other. "But I don't think he intends to give you any grief. He seemed quite worried about you during our last meeting."

"Worried? He must have taken ill as well, in that case," America griped instinctually, pulling the coverlet of the bed closer to her neck. "How was the last meeting, by the way? I haven't spent much time convening with everyone else since the end of the war."

Nodding, Canada set the bowl of goo on the nightstand. "Your absence has been troubling as well, even before your economic bust. Europe is in as much unrest as ever. It seems that the Germans aren't fond of the restrictions placed on them by the Treaty of Versailles. Yet, I hear that their economy is in shambles as well."

"Oh, Germany," America muttered softly, as though recalling a nostalgic memory. "It won't be long before he's up and about again."

"Mmm, and when that happens, let's hope that you're up and about as well," Canada added, cocking his head to the side as there was a knock upon the door. "Your next visitor is here, I think."

Groaning, America listened peevishly as Canada went to unlock the front door of the house, greeting the intruder politely before escorting him upstairs and back into the bedroom.

"Perhaps you'll get her to eat," Canada lamented, pushing open the door and inviting England inside. "God knows she won't listen to me."

Glowering at her sickly form, England approached the chair by the bedside, settling himself into it without a second of hesitation. "Oh, how the tables have turned," he mocked, examining the food that Canada had been trying to gorge her with previously. After a moment, he took the bowl into his hands and twirled the spoon through its contents, mixing the concoction thoroughly.

"Canada tells me you still haven't set him free," America noted with a cheeky grin, wiping the sweat off of her forehead. "I thought you would've annexed him to me by now. Surely you don't have much of a reason to keep him around anymore?"

Wearing a frown in the doorway, Canada sighed. "I see that my ministrations have been appreciated. If you don't mind me, I'm going to run a few errands downstairs."

When her brother was out of earshot, she let out an airy laugh. "It's more satisfying to tease him now that he's older," she claimed, letting out a little hiss as England placed a cold hand on her forehead.

"I keep him under my watch to protect him from your tyranny," England accused amusingly, prying another spoonful of mash into America's mouth as she grimaced discontentedly.

Swallowing painfully, America spluttered exaggeratedly, swatting England's hands away from her vicinity. "That was horrid."

"Don't fuss—it's nutritional. With your diet, I doubt this will do you any harm."

"I don't wish to find out."

Smirking devilishly, England managed to get another heaping amount of the substance down her throat again. "I imagine it's delectable. Now, I trust you understand the delicate situation taking place in Europe as we speak? I don't want to overwhelm you while you're unwell, but—"

"You won't be getting any loans for a long while, old friend," America interjected, folding her arms across her chest. "And if war should break out again, I will _not_ be getting involved."

"And why on earth not? You're now a leading world democracy. You can't cower away from your responsibility to defend your ideals at home and abroad."

Scoffing, America brushed a few sweat-soaked strands of hair away from her face. "I doubt that after this crisis, my people will want to get themselves engulfed in another European war. We've had enough for now."

"Foolish girl," England spat, forcing even more mash into America for her comments. "You rallied public support during the first World War. Why shouldn't you be able to manage the same now? I can assure you that this war will be far more destructive than the first, and the democracies of the world don't stand a fighting chance without your contributions."

"Pardon me if I'm wrong, but are you trying to insinuate that I'm a powerful force to be reckoned with?"

"What? I never—"

"Go on, out with it!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Say it! You know you want to."

"Stop this ridiculousness."

Sitting up in bed, America let a smile stretch from ear to ear on her face. "I know what this is about. 'Oh, America, your power is unmatched. Please join our cause!'"

Growling now, England stood up from his seat. "Forget it! You're incorrigible!"

"Why, England, you should've said something sooner. You see, I'm a very busy woman, and I don't have the time to join in on your little war games. Perhaps, we can discuss such festivities at a later date?" America teased with bolstered spirits. "Admit it, you need me!"

"I shouldn't have to listen to this. Rot in this bed for all I care!"

Letting out a harsh cough, America feigned a pained gasp. "Agh—!"

Turning back toward the bed and hovering over her form, England frowned morosely. "Bloody—what is it now? Are you all right?"

Catching the clear concern in her former fatherland's eyes, she grinned. "You _do _care about me. Don't try to pretend otherwise. And the truth is, I worry about you as well, so let's not beat around the bush. I'll promise you this much, England, I'll do what I can."

"That's what I wanted to hear," England replied with a distraught sigh, ambling back to his chair. "Now, let's finish this lovely dinner of yours, yes?"

"On second thought, I lied. I won't be of any help to you or any of the Allies should war come upon us."

"Come now," England coaxed condescendingly, leaning forward in his seat. "I thought you were a woman of your word, America."

"Yes, though I'm kind of wishing I wasn't."

* * *

"_We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on beaches, landing grounds, in fields, in streets and on the hills. We shall never surrender." - Winston Churchill. _

At times, she hoped they would surrender, if only so that she did not have to witness England's suffering any longer. The man's nation had been completely ravaged, and on the nights when she felt a little more vulnerable than during the others, she found herself sobbing wretchedly from within the walls of her bedroom, wondering if the world would ever recover from such a horrifying and gruesome conflict.

And she wanted to do more—she _truly _did, but her government was unrelenting. Therefore, she did as much as she possibly could while still claiming to be neutral.

"_Amerique_, this has gone too far. You must do something," France had said, expressing his grievances to her. The man had already surrendered his nation, and never had she seen him so jittery and helpless, nearly falling to his knees with desperate pleas.

It made her emotional all over again. She thought she'd felt conflicted and torn during the Civil War, but nothing compared to _this_. The Allies were losing, and the only nations that were still keeping them afloat were Russia and Britain.

Each day she waited for the 'okay' from her government, counting down each minute with a frantic impatience.

"I'll be sending over more munitions soon through the Lend-Lease Act," she promised England in her letters, doing her best to reassure him that justice would prevail. She sent him as many resources as possible, except that half of her cargo never made it to his shores in once piece.

And perhaps her anger toward the Axis Powers wouldn't have been as immense if the Germans didn't insist on attacking her ships. She had already cautioned Germany multiple times to watch his step, but he hadn't heeded her warnings.

When things couldn't seem to get any worse, a new belligerent yanked at her thinning patience.

_Japan. _

The attack on Pearl Harbor hadn't been entirely unexpected, but she _hadn't _expected the attack to take place there. Instead, she had been anticipating an attack on Washington.

It had been the final straw, and if the Germans, Italians, and Japanese wanted to play with fire, then they would have to risk getting scorched.

The beast had been roused, and America held no mercy for her foes, launching herself into a campaign of island-hopping in the Pacific with Japan while working with England in Europe to free France from Germany. Her fresh and young soldiers had driven a new motivating force through the heart of the Allies, and she had supplied her partners with much needed resources.

Thankfully, the Axis was running out of steam quickly, especially with the breakneck pace that America was moving at, replenishing their collection of weapons and ushering in new technological advancements onto the battlegrounds.

But the effects of the blitzkrieg were still as bright as day.

She walked into the infirmary crying, tears shielded by quivering hands as she passed the long row of beds in the makeshift hospital. It smelled of drying blood and rubbing alcohol, but she was far too busy with thinking about the destruction she could have prevented as she neared the bed she was looking for.

Pained eyes clouded with anguish stared back at her, and she tried to think of something witty to say, yearning for the ability to cast away all of the misfortunes around her.

"_The Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming… The drums rum-tumming everywhere…_" she sang through her occasional sobs, kneeling over the disheveled bed. Her upper body practically collapsed onto the man's lap as she mumbled fervent apologies. "I'm so sorry… God, I'm sorry."

England blinked mutely at her, covered in blood-soaked bandages. Then, he carefully reached out a hand and took hold of America's trembling one.

And he did what he had done many years ago in moments like these—he brought the chilled appendage up to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on it. "Better late than never."

Stuck between laughing at the morbidity of it all and crying, America settled on something in-between, squeezing England's hand firmly. "How do you do it? How did you hold on for so long?"

"We Brits are a stubborn bunch," England replied with a melancholy smile. "I'm tired of war…"

"You could say that again."

"But I'm so damned happy you're here."

"Me too," America agreed immediately. She looked at England in the way she had looked at him as a child, revering him as some sort of hero. Shortly after, she found the solace that she'd once received on a daily basis from the other, pitying his weary eyes and aging form. "Me _too_."

"America?"

"Yes, England?"

"Do tell me when we've won."

Smiling through another round of unashamed tears, America mustered a little chuckle and a promising nod.

"Of course."


End file.
